#new flights morocco

[agogotravelmorocco]

Moroccan National Tourism Board ONMT announces 35 new air routes for 2023 summer season. There are 10 airlines : Aegean Airlines, Air Arabia Maroc, Binter Canarias, EasyJet, Eurowings Discover, Luxair, Ryanair, TUIfly Belgium, Volotea and Vueling, which will connect various European cities to 8 Moroccan destinations : Agadir, Essaouira, Fez, Marrakech, Nador, Ouarzazate, Rabat and Tangier. more info : https://agogo-travel.com/2023/02/15/onmt-announces-35-new-air-routes-for-2023-summer-season/

[leclsrc]

do you want it? ✴︎ cs55

genre: summer love!!!, slight age gap, porn w plot basically...

word count: 10.5k  

Whatever preconceived notions you have about your summer at the beach house are all toppled over when your parents announce the arrival of a guest, who happens to be your dad's friend. title from this

auds here… hiii :) req'd by several people! few notes... carlos is aged up a tad, the age gap is 21/33 so not too bad (i aged him up bc the age gap was 7 yrs and i was like. Huh. thats tame). if ur not into that (tho everything is consensual and reader is legal) its ok! anyway im sorry this came so late i had like 6 anons asking ab carlos and lana haha. also big thanks to dani whose work got me thru 4 writing ruts

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... sexual tension, penetrative sex, dry humping, oral sex (m and f receiving), deepthroating, semi public sex ish?, praise central, size kink, like a flash of spit kink sorry..., overuse of the term good girl

Half past noon and after a particularly snappy call from his manager, Carlos bites the bullet on summer plans and decides to accept what is arguably the least glamorous offer on his roster. By no means a dazzling standout, the offer to stay at a family friend’s house in Comporta seems to be the most comfortable option—besides, he doesn’t feel himself to be in the glitzy mood for cities like Los Angeles or Monaco.

Lando, beside him, is thus the first to get wind of the news that “grumpy old man” Carlos will not be accompanying him to the ultimate, tequila-flavored “summer extravaganza” in Morocco.

“You’re boring,” Lando moans, pacing the room. Outside, London’s skyline moves passively. Carlos hangs up his phone call with his assistant, receives a picture of his flight details, and looks up amusedly.

“Portugal is not boring.”

“Morocco. DJs, drinks, girls.” Lando raises one hand. “Comporta. Family friends, apple cider, sand in your eyes.” He raises another hand a few inches lower. “See the difference?”

“I appreciate the difference.” Truth is, Carlos has needed this kind of quiet, calm time off for a while now. The season gets heavy and intense and tiring, and sometimes just staying by the beach with a beer is the best kind of reprieve.

“You’re getting old,” Lando says with a sour grimace. “Old.”

“That is,” Carlos says, searching for the word, “defamation.”

Lando shrugs, moves off the subject as he shoves a handful of crisps into his mouth. “Are you meeting family there?”

“No.” Both of his parents are out of the country for the next few weeks; Carlos was invited by his dad’s friend, though the bond they share is more friendly than just the standard uncle-nephew type of relationship, and they often refer to each other as just friends. “Just friends. Gallery owner and a company owner, I think.”

Lando whistles. “Rich.”

In response, Carlos nods. “And their daughter, who’s visiting from university in the States.” The details are fuzzy in his head, but the gist is about right.

“Sounds boring,” his friend snorts. “Come on, mate. You, me, Daniel. One last chance to watch Peggy Gou’s set and take shots and have fuuun.” He says the last part with the suave that would only rival a preteen’s.

Carlos, for a second, lets his resolve waver. Maybe it would be better watching loud DJ sets, dancing, getting all flushed with alcohol. But he blinks and shakes his head anyway. He hopes his decision is the right one, that summer in the beach house ends up being worth it. It’s a few weeks by the beach, anyway—what’s the worst that could happen?

—

Any recollection of your childhood almost instantly connects to the beach house in Comporta, big and wide and right by the coast. You spent fall, winter, and spring in a constant bumbling state of excitement to spend summer there. Your parents owned it, and often offered family friends to take up residence there when summers in the city got unbearable; for the most part, though, it was the three of you and, on rare years, a guest.

Your summers there have since smudged into the same few memories, of your mum and dad’s faces, of swimming and the learning curve of sailing, of bonfires by the beach on cold nights. And they have since become just that: memories. Summers grew sparse with time, and eventually the idea of meeting distant family friends became more embarrassing than exciting; by the time your parents moved you out of Europe for college, you’d lost almost all memory of the house.

So when your parents ask if you want to fly back to Comporta and spend a few “quiet” weeks there, you figure there’s no harm in seeing what the house is like and what summer can offer you beyond the weekly club outings. Instead of the usual quiet and overall lack-of-bustle that comes with summers, however, you open the front door to three housekeepers dusting every surface in your immediate eyesight.

“Are we hosting a wedding?” You ask when you find your parents tending to two sweaty glasses of champagne. You gesture faintly to the cleanfest inside. “What is going on?”

“We have a guest,” your mother says as she gets up to hug you tight. “Staying for the summer.”

“You said this summer would be quiet,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing underneath your sunglasses.

Your mum pinches your elbow. “I wasn’t lying,” she defends, raising her eyebrows. “Carlos’ son is coming.” She pats your arm. “You know? The race driver! He’s close with your father.” And, leaving no space for you to voice your dissent, she slips back into the house through the screen door, your father kissing your cheek then following suit. Your mouth parts, thoughts beginning to rush with implications of what your mother has just told you.

Carlos—if you’re correct—is Carlos Sainz, Sr., a good friend of your dad’s, and his son is Carlos Sainz, Jr., another good friend of your dad’s, because if there’s one thing rich Europeans do well, it’s the repetition of names. You’ve never met his son, only heard of him and seen a few pictures, but being so far detached from life here, you can’t even shape his face.

All you recall is the fact that he should now be thirty or older, which makes him rather older than you—and therefore effectively incapable of providing any break from any possible summer boredom. For fuck’s sake, he’s close to your dad. You’re at the top of the stairs when you hear the commotion by the front door, peeking at the foyer to catch a glimpse of him.

He’s solo, you observe; upon a glance into the front parking, you notice he’s driven here in a Ferrari, one a bit too modern for your taste but beautiful nevertheless. He carries only two pieces of luggage, and the sun blinds you for a moment before he’s finally at the doorframe, smiling politely, talking to your dad in casual Spanish.

He is, for lack of better word, insanely handsome. He wears a polo that shows off much of his arms, that flex as he puts down his luggage to shake hands with your parents; you follow the movement of his hands to watch one comb through his thick hair, then down to his smile, back up to his brown eyes, deep and so, so pretty.

Maybe this summer deserves a little less begrudge, you decide as you retreat back into your room, still brewing with residual annoyance.

Your parents send him off after a drink and a brief conversation, catch-up, tour of the downstairs area. Carlos knows his room is supposed to be upstairs, but the problem arises in the fact that there are two upstairs rooms and he doesn’t know which one he’s supposed to be staying in. Setting his luggage down for a minute, he knocks on the first door; permissive silence greets him for half a minute, so he turns the knob and prepares to enter.

To his surprise, he finds somebody already inside, a figure by the mirror on the other end of the room. What catches his eye is not the tiny skirt, but the half-tied bikini top currently being wound around two fingers at the centre of your back. You’re basically clothed, but Carlos can’t decide if he’s thankful or not—he doesn’t have time to when you catch him in the mirror and turn around quick, mouth agape.

“Can’t you knock?!” You ask, catty.

“I did—I knocked, but you—there was no answer,” he explains profusely. “I’m Carlos. Sorry, apologies. Truly.”

You introduce yourself. You’re his friend’s daughter, this and that, and you’re visiting from the States to spend summer here. He apologizes again when you finish. 

“Well, seeing as though this is my room,” you shoot back, “that must be yours.” You gesture vaguely to the one down the hall. Amused and a little embarrassed, he mouths apologies as he closes the door.

Carlos exits, departs and doesn’t have time to take in the room before he’s facedown on the bed. Any sleepiness he’d collected from the trip over, from the day drinks, from the headache that’d been blooming at the temples of his head, has dissipated. His mind’s been imprinted with one image only, and it’s down the hall in a tiny skirt.

—

Lunch brings lemonade and pasta, two staples for every summer meal. You, however, find yourself hopelessly distracted by the presence of your guest, and despite your best efforts, the churn in your stomach disables you from fully enjoying the carbonara on the table. The conversation between Carlos and your dad ends up taking your attention instead. “So you’re racing again in a few weeks?”

“Sí,” Carlos nods in-between forkfuls. Then, to add, “Busy, busy times.”

“Well. It’s the worst of our days,” your mum says, a quote she picked up from—of all places—a BBC sitcom she watched to tears last winter. “You are a talented driver, Carlos. Very cultured. I’m sure you’ll enjoy Comporta.”

“I have not been around much,” he says; his gaze flutters over to his glass, which is devoid of water or lemonade. “Any recommendations?”

“A lot, cabrón. Our daughter will be happy to take you around,” your father says on your behalf. He turns to you. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, sure,” you say, allowing a terse smile. “There’s some places around here that aren’t so boring. But that’s being generous.” Carlos laughs at your joke, raucous and goofy, and you would definitely be lying if you told yourself it didn’t get you blushing a little bit, eyes casting themselves to your still-full plate.

“While you’re here, Carlos,” your dad continues, “I have an old car in the garage that could use some looking at. Are you—would you know how to—?”

Carlos nods, accepting the favor—then the conversation naturally slides into one of cars and racing. Carlos chronicles his journey in Formula One, his Toro Rosso days back then when he was younger, his McLaren period, and now, his time representing Ferrari. He talks of pet peeves on the grid, annoyances but also praises for the sport.

“I’d appreciate the downtime, actually,” he explains, “that I’d get from working on a car instead of in one.” He laughs, eyes briefly meeting yours. He looks away, then looks again. He can’t help himself. He wonders if he’s being obvious, if you can tell the way his looks are anything but casual. “Can you pour me a glass?” He adds.

“Yeah,” you mutter, sitting straight to pour lemonade into his waiting glass. You meet his eyes and almost pour it over the pasta. The rest of the lunch is uneventful, a series of adult conversation you can’t seem to engage yourself in fully, and whether that’s because of personal preference or Carlos’ presence, you don’t make an effort to try.

“…ney. Honey.” Your mum’s voice distracts you from your thoughts; when you look up, half the table is clear and Carlos and your dad have ventured inside to deposit plates at the sink. 

“Sorry. Wh—sorry, what?” You blink.

“Your father and I are heading out for the evening. Carlos will be working on the car. That okay, or you want to come along?”

“Um…” You pretend the latter is even an option before shaking your head. “No, I’ll stay.”

“Good.” She strokes your hair. “He could use the company.”

You follow her walking figure inside, where you station your eyes on Carlos. He’s sipping a lemonade. His eyes meet yours for a second and your face is outrageously flushed when you realize you’ve been caught staring, just like his had been earlier when he walked into your room.

—

You’re hellbent on solving a Sudoku puzzle when the dinner bell rings, and you have to finish it on the stairs. Your dad’s always been a stickler for arriving to dinner on time—every meal, but a gargantuan emphasis on the last—and you’ve been victim to scoldings about being five to six minutes late, an instance you don't wish to repeat.

9, you scribble, bare feet moving with speed through the living room, indoor dining room, then to the patio door. 4 comes next, your footsteps following the smell of grilled meat. 8, you write as you turn into the outdoor dining area. You’re halfway through 2 when you stop, look up, and find Carlos preparing dinner.

“Oh—” You pause. “You rang the dinner bell? Are my parents not…?”

“They are at a dinner,” says Carlos, eyes meeting yours briefly. It reminds you of earlier and you clear your throat, looking away. “So I hope my cooking is good enough.”

“It smells great,” you offer, seating yourself down and pouring a glass of wine. He sets the plate down—just-cut steak, a smear of potatoes. “Christ, you cook better than Dad.”

“I take that as a compliment,” he laughs, sitting across you. “Listen, I want to apologize for accidentally walking into your room earlier.”

Your face warms. “No, it’s okay. I was just surprised.”

“It was wrong of me. Let’s start over. I’m Carlos.” He reaches over to shake your hand, still standing. You take it, eyes flitting over his hand, spotting no glinting ring on his finger. With a saccharine smile, you assure him it was an honest mistake, so he segues into a different topic, the corners of his mouth turning up. “So, do you have an itinerary for me tomorrow?”

You hum, passing the wine over to him. “A bookstore, an ice cream parlor, and a bike ride. Anything else is seriously not worth it. You’ll have the next few weeks to explore town. If the house gets that boring.”

“I haven’t been bored so far,” he says, eyes glinting.

“Oh?”

“You know, with the car fixing.” He points vaguely to where the garage is. “But it’s only been a day.”

“Car fixing is boring,” you state matter-of-factly. “You’ll have fun tomorrow.” You cut into the steak and bite into the forkful you stab at, eyes fluttering.

“Good?” Carlos asks, smiling a little.

“I love it,” you mumble. “You’re so good at this, Carlos.”

Carlos retires to his room that night, and finds that today has held a collective motif of losing his shit. He’s anything but sleepy. Restless, wild-eyed, combing hand after hand through his hair. God, if he’d known you were this pretty—this hard to resist, on his first night here, no less—he would’ve been watching some DJ spin out a set with Lando right now.

Instead, he finds he can’t stop himself from thinking about you, the way your eyes had fluttered when he tried saying something on the edge of flirty. Your hair. Your hands, your fingers, lithe around the stem of your wine glass.

I love it, you’d said, you’re so good at this, Carlos. You knew exactly what you were doing, skittish tone putting him on edge. Despite himself, he can’t help but squeeze himself through his pants when he sits down on the edge of the bed, breathing heavy to purge himself of thoughts so low and dirty.

You’re so pretty. You’d be so easy to wreck, make his, goad little moans out of you, get your lips around him, puffy and pink and pretty. He wedges his eyes shut tight and hopes these thoughts will dissipate as the week passes.

Something tells him he’s wrong, though.

—

The tour is delayed because your dad insists he go fishing with Carlos three days in a row, but eventually (likely due to your mum’s insistence) it pushes through. You greet him with a smile, waiting by the door, wearing a sundress. Sundresses will definitely be his demise.

You’re a good tour guide, though, Carlos figures when you’re finished pointing at every turn and sign and dictating what goes where and where the passage to the coast is, when you’ve even quizzed him about where you are and where the house is supposed to be.

After he points in the correct direction, you nod approvingly. “That’s how my dad made sure I wouldn’t get lost,” you explain when he laughs at your choice of tour guidance. 

“And you were what—twelve?” He asks, walking beside you. It’s fairly empty in town, a few tourists mulling about carrying shopping bags and plastic cups of juice.

“Try fourteen,” you argue. 

“Well, quizzing a, uh—a fourteen-year-old is really not the same as quizzing a grown adult.”

“Ha. Call me when you can’t find your way home tonight,” you diss sarcastically, making a turn toward the bookstore down the street. “Okay, here we are. Don’t get too excited. They’re just books.”

For a relatively empty town, the bookstore always has new batches of titles, displayed proudly for natives and tourists alike front and centre. But you’re already going to the right side of the store, busying yourself with looking at the signs. 

“The classics shelf is always my favorite,” you say, already walking ahead of him. Your dress bobs softly with your legs as you pace, short and sweet and white. You turn and his eyes slide back up instantly, and he hopes he was quick enough. “Do you have any authors you like?”

“I am not a big reader. You?”

“Huge,” you say, smiling a little. “Okay, we can browse. Are you into any genre…?”

Carlos proceeds to tell you his track record in the literary field includes: reading half the Harry Potter series, a car manual, and a few other titles in Spanish he cannot recall the name or plot of. But, he adds, he’s always wanted to read, found the activity so quiet and still and perfect, so he allows you to lead him through the titles stacked on each table and condensed on each shelf. He points at, sometimes, or picks up covers he finds appealing.

“How about—?” He reaches for a pink cover that reads It Ends With Us, but your hand loops around his wrist before he can pick it up and you’re pulling him into another aisle.

“…Not that.” You continue perusing the books around you, your hand still wrapped around his. With your free finger, you point at the top shelf, and tiptoe against the bookcase to try and get it. You come close, but not close enough.

Carlos, behind you, is successful, not even needing to tiptoe to reach for the red hardbound you’d been pointing at. It also means he’s pressed up against you, heavy and big, and the sensation dizzies you. When he finally pulls it off, you turn to him and find respite in the proximity—you two are so close, every exhale out of your lips causes a puff of air to blow against his hair.

He steps backward. You smile and gesture toward the book he’s holding. “That’s a good one.”

“Gabriel Garcia Marquez.” He reads out the author’s name in one fluid sentence, his Spanish accent becoming naturally more obvious.

“Okay, colonizer.” He knits his brows. “Trust me,” you insist. “One Hundred Years of Solitude—so good. It was one of the first books I read front to back twice in a row.”

“Wow, what an honor,” he teases sarcastically as you move along the aisle, fingertips brushing against the indents of the books. You turn to narrow your eyes and stick your tongue out. Unfortunately for Carlos, the effect this inflicts upon him is not oh she mocked me, but oh how would it look if—

He needs ice cream. Or to just get out of this aisle.

—

You punctuate the day with two cones of it, melting way too fast in the heat of summer. He’s already half-finished with his vanilla, and you’re taking your time with the lemon sorbet you’d gotten for yourself. Apparently, this is the only other highlight the town has to offer, and judging by the fact that most of the other stores are expensive clothes, souvenir shops, and a Bible bookstore—yeah.

Carlos is also more than sated with the three books in the paper bag he’s holding. Scratch that—six books, you bought a haul for yourself—but it’s not a particularly heavy load, so he’s fine. His phone has been buzzing with Lando’s update requests that he’s been deliberately ignoring.

“They make the best ice cream,” you rave, smiling. You lick over the melt on your lips. “Right?”

He might actually drop his cone now. “It is delicious.”

“Well…” You look around, your hair flying with every turn of your head. Lick over lips again. Again, and again. He has to look away.

“…Do you wanna stop by anywhere else?” You turn to him and ask, licking over the tip of your ice cream cone.

It’s hard for Carlos to pretend he’s looking around your surroundings, at the signs and storefronts, and not at your sticky lips, your pink tongue just peeking out to lap at the quickly melting gelato around your hand. His eyes flit downward, to where the hem of your tiny white dress has flown up in the coastal wind, exposing more of your thighs.

“Carlos?” You repeat, voice sweet and waiting.

He snaps his eyes back up and wills his voice to remain passive. “We can head back.”

So you do, meaning your tour ends around noon, and your parents greet you both with lunch and the round of inevitable questions. Did Comporta live up to your expectations? What books did you get? Was our daughter a good tour guide? The latter, Carlos answers with a smile—very good. You allowed your face to flush, blamed it on the sangria.

Now, though, it’s the brink in-between chilly and hot, sticky traces of the summer afternoon still lingering in the air, mixing with the cool of dusk when you decide to exit your room and fix yourself a glass of something, preferably sweet and alcoholic. An empty driveway save for a Ferrari means your parents are gone, leaving you and—if you’re lucky, which you hope you are—

“Carlos,” you call out from the window you’ve just tugged open with the expertise of somebody who’s lived here for twenty-one summers. “Thirsty?”

He looks up from where he is, outside, continuing his operation on your dad’s car. The hood’s been cranked open, and his long hair is damp with sweat, flying gently in the face of the sunset breeze. He smiles when he sees your figure peeking out.

“For what?”

“Whatever you want,” you respond, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. His white shirt’s stained with oil and dirt, tainting it beige and grey, the tight fit even tighter from his sweat. You can make out the outline of his abs just underneath. 

He squints. “Beer?”

You make an exaggerated eugh face to tease him, but duck back inside to bring your homemade aperol and an open, frosty beer outside. When he sees you, he walks closer, smiles and takes a swig of the drink you offer. He makes a noise of satisfaction and you have to make a real effort to maintain a semblance of normalcy, eyes averting from his lips to gaze instead at his solid shoulders, his build, big and tall.

“What’s the problem with beer, hmm?”

“Tastes like shit.” You raise your aperol. “The sweeter, the better. How’s Dad’s car?” You blink, sidestepping him to try and gauge his progress.

“Casi termino.” You look at him, raising your eyebrows, and he translates. “Almost done. It wasn’t that destroyed, if at all.”

“You think he’ll let you drive it when you’re done?” You ask playfully, swiping your condensation-wet finger over the side of the car. You turn, smiling expectantly; Carlos laughs a bit, shrugs.

“It is just a favor. But if he does, I’ll make sure you get to come along.” He says. “You like that?”

“Mmm,” you nod, sipping on your aperol. You part from your straw, lips stained, and smile up at him. “I do.”

His gaze is stuck on your lips. You lick over them, and he looks away with a slow blink. You watch as he ruffles his hair, rounds the car and crosses his arms to view it from the back.

God, he’s handsome. You think of the long-winded nights you’ve been spending trailing your fingers over your legs or texting inspired paragraphs to friends back in university about him. Their responses are almost always Send pic now and a cacophony of heart eye emojis when you manage to snag a stolen shot of him doing just about anything.

His gaze is scrutinizing, every little detail of the car, and eventually he closes the hood again. “Should be good by tomorrow.”

“Where’d you learn to fix cars?” You ask sweetly, nearing him. The wind bites at your legs, your flowy skirt bouncing sporadically and held down by your free hand. When your eyes flit to his, waiting for his response, you find them snapping upward. He’d been distracted.

“I work with cars, so it comes natural.” You lean on the hood of the car and he comes to stand in front of you, his eyes pointed downward at you. “That’s not a very good habit,” he adds.

“Drinking?” You pout, raising your half-empty glass. You blink up at him, the corner of your smiling lip caught in your teeth.

“Biting your lip.” His gaze is intense. “You do it a lot, I noticed.”

You smile, leaning backward a little. His resolve is breaking. “Can I borrow one of the books you got earlier?”

“The three ones you bought not enough?” He raises a brow, downing beer again. Some of it dribbles out of the corner of his lip. You’ve never been one to like the taste, but you’d lick it off him if you could.

“I just wanna browse it,” you push. “I’ll return it tomorrow.”

“Fine,” he relents. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”

—

He sees you the next day after lunch, which you’d skipped because you “weren’t hungry.” You’re wearing a dress, hair clipped into a bun when you excuse yourself to pick up an earring in front of him. He almost thinks it’s a fib until he sees it, the pink gem on the floor.

“Sorry,” you say, voice mellow, and then you’re bending over to pick it up. You’re wearing pretty lace panties underneath.

Carlos clears his throat and excuses himself, adjusting his shorts as he goes upstairs.

—

He gives you Norweigan Wood after dinner, like he promised earlier in the week. Two raps on your door, and when you open it, he’s already handing it to you with a quiet smile. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice clipped.

“Our tour isn’t over yet,” you tease, tossing the book onto your bed and descending the steps back downstairs. Confused and interested, he follows you, to the back area of the house, past the swinging screen door, down the steps, and onto the sand.

“Tour?” He repeats, for clarification. The only things to tour are sand and twigs.

“Yeah, Carlos. This is the real tour,” you joke, walking backwards. Every step sends your foot sinking into the cold sand, slowing your pace until Carlos catches up, matching your steps once he does. “Comporta—real and unfiltered.” You both laugh at your hyperbolic, MTV-worthy statement, and he waits for more, entertains you further.

“What is so real about this?” Carlos laughs, allowing himself to humor your little schtick.

“Well, mister. This isn’t bookstores and ice cream parlors.” You point to a nearby spot in the sand, just by a rogue stick. “This is where I smoke without getting caught. Near enough that I can run back in seconds, but faraway enough that my parents can’t immediately see what I’m doing. Granted, I don’t need to be sneaking around much, but if you ever want to do something in secret—”

The implication sends Carlos into a spiral of thought.

“—here’s your spot.”

“So you smoke,” he says when he sits himself on the sand, observing the now-dark skyline of the area. You continue pacing around a little, and when you raise your arms up to stretch, he catches a glimpse of your abdomen, the waistband of pink lace underneath the low rise of your denim shorts.

“Occasionally. Don’t play Holy Mary,” you warn, standing in front of him and stretching your hand out to reveal a box of Marlboro Reds. 

“Wasn’t planning to,” he responds, taking a stick and inserting it in between his lips. “Got a light?”

“No,” you tease, taking one for yourself and sliding your lighter out from your pocket in one quick motion. The flame illuminates your face, casts a light on your thin white tee and on the bikini top you have on underneath. You puff out a small cloud of smoke, and Carlos reaches up to take the lighter.

“I said no,” you giggle, your lips knotting into a pout. You hold the lighter just out of his reach, red and bold against the bleak evening. 

“Give it.” He sits up higher, reaches harder; he almost gets it, but you step backward and raise your arm out of reach. Again your shirt rises with the movement. The view he gets, this time, of your hips, the lace that hugs the area there, is much more close.  The laugh you emit sends a cloud of smoke out.

“No, no,” you continue, laughing, a sweet sound.

Carlos gets up, tries again to lunge for the lighter. At this point he doesn’t even care about the cigarette in between his lips, just wants to entertain you. He tries again but you’re quick with it, ducking every lunge just in time.

“Come on,” he goads, laughing himself. You pace backward, smoking, until your ankles hit the shallow shore water, water that goes deeper and deeper until you’re knee-level, still smiling at him mischievously. 

“Fine,” you relent, shrugging. You throw your hands up in surrender, in the process taking the stick out of your mouth to blow smoke out. “Do you want it? C’mere, then.” You beckon him closer, wave the lighter tantalizingly so he steps closer, closer, until you’re holding the flame to the cigarette between his lips.

He’s so tall, he has to bend a little to let you light it, his eyes meeting yours, illuminated by the pale moon and the orange of the flame.

It all goes to plan. Once you light it, you place two hands square on his shoulders, whirl him so he’s behind you and thus even deeper in the water, and with all your might, push him into the sea. 

“Brat—” he manages to gasp out as he goes, the word leaving his lips in the first and last puff of smoke he lets out. He surfaces, every dip and ridge of his abs and chest accentuated, his linen polo near invisible with how saturated it is with water. His long hair, too, sticks to his forehead; he combs it backward, reveals his amused-irritated eyes, the dead cigarette spouting seawater and ash.

He spits it out. You stare and pinch the soggy stick in between two fingers, stuffing the trash into his chest pocket. “That’s bad for the environment.”

“I am freezing,” he says in response, but you’re just stifling a laugh.

He narrows his eyes, and with unsurprising ease given his build, picks you up and carries you over his shoulder. You barely have time to protest, almost dropping your own cigarette into the water, kicking and pounding on his back to please put me down. You can feel the water getting deep, deeper, and when he finally dunks you in, it’s only a second of dryness before you’re submerged in the chilly water.

Your cigarette dies, and you manage to collect it, because you’re not in the interest of leaving your stick floating; you wedge it into your pocket.

“You’re such”—you gasp for air—“a dick!”

You’re smiling, though, flailing your legs to stay afloat. Carlos can’t help but stare, entranced with the way your eyelashes stick together, damp, the droplets of water on your cheeks, your two hands wringing saltwater out of your hair, and when you swim upward, the way your white tee leaves nothing to his imagination.

You can tell. He can tell you can tell—because the next thing you do, with some faux exaggerated sigh of annoyance, is say, “Can’t swim, too heavy,” and you’re taking off your shirt so all he sees is the red of your bikini top underneath. The white tee bobs softly with each passing wave, and you’re smiling up at him. Checkmate, you’re saying. I’ve got you. A skittish, playful smile on your lips.

“I can help you swim,” he offers—retaliates, more like, his height offering him great advantage. He finds your bare ankle underwater, guides it to wrap around his waist. Naturally, your other leg follows until you’re flush against him, held up by him so you don’t need to wag your legs around just to stay above water.

Your hands go on his still-clothed shoulders first, then eventually around them, fingers linking at the nape of his neck. Your smile is wicked. You’re so sinfully pretty. He wades deeper, holds you all the while, two big hands on either side of your waist, thumbs rubbing over your sides so you can shiver.

“‘M so wet,” you say, voice shaky with chill and laughter. His grip tightens and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to try and pretend you didn’t just say that.

He dips you underneath the surface to surprise you, and your shriek is cut off by the water—he pulls you up quick, laughing, but underestimates his strength because as he tugs, you barrel right onto him, forehead bumping his.

Your eyes are closed, and you momentarily detach from him to wipe salt out of them. “Ass.”

“Brat,” he responds.

You open your eyes to find he’s close, so close you could just lean forward an inch—an inch—and you’d be meeting his lips. You wonder how they feel, how he kisses. He’s confident everywhere else, would he kiss you like that, too? You lean closer, a wrecked gasp escaping you.

“You’re so pretty,” you say, and it’s supposed to be teasing, but your breathy voice is genuine, honest. A thumb swipes over his eyelashes, causing him to blink, then the bridge of his nose. He leans upward, tries to catch your lips, but pauses, his eyes fluttering open and closed.

“This is wrong,” he says in a quiet breath, making no move at all you stop either of you from kissing right now.

You want—need—to kiss him, but you can play the long game if he wishes to. Your eyes flit back up to his, dark brown and reflecting the moon.

“Then let’s head back,” you suggest, even if both of you want anything but.

Long game. He guides you back to shore, picks your tee up, uses it as a sieve for any loose ash and cigarette bits in your path back to shore, even finds your red lighter that’s now dispensing water. He apologizes for not having anything to dry you with, and drops you off at your room with a puddle in both of your wakes.

“Thank you again,” he says, his voice a whisper through your ajar door. He observes your room with what little vantage point he has. The posters on the wall, the art, postcards. The laptop on the bed, open. The phone charging on the nightstand. The thong hanging out of the hamper.

“No problem,” you say back, voice saccharine. Your hand wraps around his wrist. “See you tomorrow.”

Even if you’re doused in seawater, he can still smell the traces of your perfume, the summery sweet of it, when you close the door. He stays for a second, blinks, relishes in the hint of floral.

—

You spend three days walking on eggshells around each other, testing the limits of interaction.

Your night at the beach was risky, dangerous, thrilling—but it was fun, sending you both into antsy, restless trains of thought. Carlos self-medicates with coffee, beer in the afternoon, working on your dad’s car, and the first two hundred pages of the Marquez book you insisted he pick up. He spots you sometimes, lounging on the beach with his book in your grip, the waistline of your bikini bottoms leaving a tanline he can’t stop staring at when you walk back into the house.

But he can’t act on it—he was the one who labeled it wrong, the one who suppressed himself, held the urge back. He told you it was wrong. And it is wrong. He’s older, he should be wiser; he’s close with your dad; and a cacophony of other rational reasons he shouldn’t be playing into this skittish summer crush.

“Dad said the boat’s free,” a voice says, and he looks up from his book to find you standing in front of him, wearing nothing but a bikini top and a skirt, loose and riding low on your hips. Your lips stretch into a sweet smile. “Wanna come?”

He really shouldn’t. “Sí.”

So he goes. He’s thirty-five. That’s a grown age. If anything, he’s capable of making sure he stays responsible. He dog-ears his page and picks up his beer to follow you to where the boat is docked. He’d been on your dad’s yacht earlier in his trip here, to go fishing, but it’s quieter today, bobbing softly atop the water. You lie yourself down on the sunny side of the boat, sunglasses over your eyes.

“Stay anywhere you like,” you say charmingly. It’s silent for a while, Carlos seating himself on one of the lounge seats in the shaded area, and then you’re moving around on your towel.

You peer over your lenses, blinking and sitting up, and this is when he knows he can’t do it.

“Carlos,” you call out. “Can you put sunscreen on my back?” You get up again, rifling in your bag for the bottle of sunscreen, dragging a hand through your hair to comb it out. It falls in loose waves, swishing when you turn to hand him the bottle. He pretends he’d been distracted on page 210 when he accepts it, watching as you sit in front of the seat, your back turned to him, your little figure in-between his spread legs. 

A minute passes with no hand at your back. “Go ahead, move even slower,” you joke, and the tension breaks a little; he humors you, laughs and apologizes.

“It’s because hour hair is in the way,” he says, touching it gently, combing it to the side.

“Wait—” You dig through your bag again and pull out a blunt pink ribbon, slipping it into his hand. “Can you braid it for me?”

“Braid?” He doesn’t know jack shit about braiding hair. “I don’t know how.”

“At that age of yours and you don’t know anything about how to please a girl,” you whistle lowly. “Adult virgin?” 

But you guide him through it despite your teasing, teaching him to divide your hair in threes, weaving one strand over the other until “it looks half decent.” He fucks up a few times and your hair looks odd at some point, but in the end, it’s—well, it’s a braid.

“How is it?” You ask, and he can hear your smile.

He does the job well enough for a first-timer, he thinks, finishing it with the ribbon, which he ties loosely lest you’re unhappy with the finished product. It becomes easier to move your hair out of the way, and once your back is saturated with sunscreen, you unfold your legs and get up, turning around and smiling down at his sitting figure.. Loose tendrils of hair frame your face, the braid resting at your back softly, already loosening.

“Your hair can be braided, too,” you comment quietly, knotting a rogue few strands in your fingers. It hasn’t been this tense since that night at the beach, but that ended before the tension rose further—this, now, keeps going. You step closer and he leans back, smiling. “Can I?”

He blinks, nostrils flaring, then nods, his grip on your hips gentle when you sit on his lap, your legs on either side of his. You smile coquettishly, feeling how hard he is underneath you, the denim of his jeans rough against the skin of your bare thighs. Your skirt’s riding up on them with every little shift you make, just to rile him up.

Carlos drinks in the sight of you, sunkissed and on his lap, legs sprawled out, pretty little face framed, bottom lip in your teeth. You’re inviting him closer, your gaze meeting his with sleepy, demure eyes—do something. You look so fucking precious, so pretty. It makes him want to give you everything right now.

You reach forward, make an attempt to try and weave his hair together—but he grinds upward, your breath hitching and a whimper punched out of your mouth.

Your hands are shaking now, barely able to piece his hair together with how good his clothed cock feels pressed against you, where you need it most. 

“Carlos,” you gasp, and all he can really think is—where’d all your fight go? You were so used to being a brat and a half, now you’re whimpering, on the edge of begging.

“Be quiet,” Carlos grunts, digging his fingers into your hips. His other hand lifts your skirt, bunching the fabric around your hips for a better view of your cunt rubbing against the bulge in his pants. The damp fabric of your panties is swallowed between your lips with every grind you make forward and he has to stop himself from cursing out loud at the sight. “Good girl.”

Your hands move from his hair to his shoulders, sturdy and broad; you can feel him squeeze your waist with both hands, then pull you down against him, just once, so your weight presses down on the hard shape of his cock. It makes him shudder and you whine out loud. You resist the urge to grind over it; you’re already so wet you’re making a mess on his jeans.

His praise, mumbled deep and slow in your ear, gets you feeling all warm, almost ditzy. Your hips roll on their own, chasing the delicious drag of rough denim against your clit, slick soaks into and through your panties, making the material cling to the shape your folds. Carlos’ hands are rough when they wander and grope, hiking this godforsaken skirt up so he can press a thumb against the centre of your folds.

“Been so good for you, Carlos,” you whine, circling your hips against him. He can’t stop staring at your pretty, fucked-out eyes, your bitten lips. He shoves two fingers in-between them, imagines how they looked just a few days ago slick with ice cream—now your tongue is laving over his hand. The braid you'd just taught him is quickly unraveling with every nod of your head. “‘M gonna—can I—” The pleas leave you quick, your voice choked.

Euphoric, your mind lifts, foggy and saturated with pleasure, the braid almost completely undone now. His praise is so addictive, gets you worked up and needy. Come on, he says. Make a mess. His accent, his deep voice, the way it rumbles right through you—his voice drops, his touch a little heavier as he presses harder.

You gonna cum for me? His thumb rubs faster until you’re gasping, shuddering, little ahs leaving your lips. He’s got the upper hand now, but you can hear the strain, the suppression in his voice as he rubs over the soaked fabric; you feel his cock growing under you, getting harder. 

P—please—I want to—please let me, you say breathlessly, and you’ve never needed it to the point of begging before, but Carlos is different. He keeps going, doesn’t give you permission, rubbing faster, your heart hammering in your chest.

Feel good?

Y—yeah, you whimper, trying your best not to fall apart here, on your dad’s boat, where anybody could walk on—or maybe see you from afar, humping your dad’s friend in broad daylight. He loves watching you like this; you’ve somehow become even prettier, face flushed and voice shaky.

Come on, he goads. Be a good girl. Cum for me.

It’s the only instruction that matters to you right now, your body seizing with it and cute little moans escaping you as you finish. You catch your breath against his chest, craving warmth even if it’s hot—maybe you’re craving him, his touch, Carlos, just Carlos. You maneuver yourself so legs, exhausted from shaking, are on one side of his body—he holds you close, humming.

He rubs a steady hand across your lower back, gentle and firm and you want him so much more now. “Are you okay?” He asks. “Talk to me.”

“Perfect,” you pant against his polo, fingers playing with the stitching, tugging the collar down so you can mouth at his skin. His hand plays with what’s left of the braid, winds the pink ribbon around his fingers. “Let’s go for a swim.”

—

“And we drove the jet ski around, too,” you say gleefully, your damp hair bobbing with every move of your head. Your face is sunkissed, a little sore from being in the sun for most of the afternoon. Carlos laughs along from where he is at the grill—he’s cooking for dinner, on a quest to make burgers because he’s known for making the best ones back in Madrid, apparently. Your dad, of course, insists on joining, and the two have been asking and answering questions while you and your mum sip rosé at the table.

“Did you have fun?” Your mum asks, her head turning to address Carlos.

“Yeah, tons,” he replies with a smile, his eyes meeting yours for a brief second. You know what he means. It’s been only two days since the afternoon on the boat, and since then you’ve mostly swam and ridden around on the jet ski with Carlos—nothing more.

“See, sweetie,” she adds, placing a hand over yours. “I told you this summer would be fun with him around!”

“Mmm, yeah,” you say, nodding and parting from your glass, “I can really count on him for some excitement.” The statement catches his attention and he almost trails off, eyes returning to yours, before he continues speaking in Spanish to your dad about something or other.

The burgers’ reputation precedes them, and is warranted, you learn later when you’re biting into it for the first time. The remainder of dinner passes by in lively conversation, the sun setting low underneath the Comporta horizon, wine taking the place of rosé. Carlos mentions the racing world again, about how he’ll be back into the thick of it sooner than later, and you pulse with something akin to sadness.

Your parents, apparently so grateful for the blessing that is Carlos’ burgers, offer to clean up and before long, they retreat to their downstairs bedroom. Upstairs, you marinate in your thoughts, blinking up at your ceiling, twining your pink ribbon around your fingers as your hair dries splayed over your bedding. You let your arm down, in the process bumping your elbow against a hard surface.

Upon investigation, you find it’s a copy of Norweigan Wood. 

Carlos is at his desk, taking a timezone-separated call about simulation and season prep, when two soft knocks go at his door and it creaks open. He turns the chair away from the desk to see who it is. An ankle steps in first, then more leg, and then you—in a lovely, pretty pink lace dress, your face illuminated by the moonlight outside. One hand clutches a copy of his book; the other, the ribbon he’d used on your hair earlier.

He’s nursing a bottle of beer, just to help ease the drag of the day, and he watches you approach him, your footsteps quiet against the hardwood of the floor. Wait, he mouths, finishing the call in a hushed tone, and when he hangs up you approach him again.

“I thought you should have this back,” you say, offering him the book. Your eyes rake over him, wearing the same getup he’d worn to dinner—denim jeans, because he’d ducked out to buy food, except he’s ridden himself of his shirt. 

He takes the book, places it on the table, continues staring up at you. “And I thought you should keep this.” The ribbon, pale pink, is now looped around his wrist and tied into a delicate ribbon at the apex of it. You admire your handiwork with a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

You lean down, face just shy of his. “We shouldn’t,” he manages to eke out, his voice strained.

“But you want to,” you respond softly. “No one’s going to know. Our little secret.”

His eyes are shut, contemplating, and then he’s kissing you—the only thing you’ve wanted, craved, touched yourself to the thought of over the course of the summer. You reciprocate immediately, parting your lips to let him kiss you deeper, a whimper leaving your mouth. He kisses like he knows he’s a good kisser, and he really is. His scent is intoxicating, a drug, sending arousal and desire straight through you.

You part, eyes half-lidded as you stand straight again. You cock your head slowly to the side, and with your head’s movement your hair follows, gathering on one side. It exposes much of your shoulder and collarbones, which lay underneath the thin lace dress you wear to sleep, and which is now subject to Carlos' unwavering stare. He has no shame, eyes raking over you, up and down and back up. One hand curled around a bottle of beer, the other coming up to slowly graze the back of your thigh.

Your breath hitches. “Do you like the dress?” You ask softly, teasingly. It’s nothing special, Carlos, you seem to say; it’s just a nightie.

His hand is rough against the thin skin of your leg, traveling upward. He gives you a nod in response; he does like it, the sheer material, the pink color, the loose way it hugs your body. Roughly, he voices his assent. “Come sit on my lap.”

“Wait,” you say, pouting. Your knee rubs softly against the material of his jeans, and you slowly sink onto your knees, hands placing themselves on your thighs. His grip goes from the back of your thigh to your hair, combing it softly, cradling your face. 

“Let me,” you say, letting your silence imply everything unsaid. He’s going crazy, losing his mind.

“So pretty,” he says, nodding. his voice thin. “Go ahead, baby.”

The petname gets you dizzy. You lean forward, resting your face on the hard bulge in his pants, smiling up at him. You’ve got these big, doe eyes, begging him, and he’s not so sure he even has the upper hand anymore—he would do anything you asked, any request that left those pretty bitten lips. He gathers your hair in two hands, forms a messy, unclean braid, crisscross at the back of your head just so he has something to grip while he fucks your throat.

You make quick, deft work of unbuttoning his jeans, and he watches, leaned back on the chair, legs spread wide with bent knees on either side of your body, caging you in. Carlos’ eyes are half-lidded, a hand at your braid, bringing his beer to his lips, swallowing before he sets it onto the adjacent desk.

His cock is big—thick, intimidating—and you can’t help but wonder how you’re going to fit the whole thing in your mouth without choking. It twitches in your palms the longer you stroke him, precum weeping from the head and slicking up your palms. Gruff expletives, in Spanish and English, slip past his gritted teeth and the sounds travel directly to your core, causing you to instinctively press your thighs together to soothe the ache blossoming there.

You take head of his cock into your mouth, feel it roll over your tongue, heavy and warm. Drool gathers in your mouth and your fingers dig into the muscle of his thighs in anticipation. The hand wound around your braid, pressed against your head, presses heavier slowly, slotting the first few inches of cock into your mouth while avoiding the back of your throat. You relax, letting your lips seal around the length, cheeks hollowing and tongue lulling at the underside. He curses.

You continue bobbing your head, lewd noises leaving your mouth with every move you make; it embarrasses you, but also sends slick gushing out of you.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes when the tip of his cock grazes the back of your throat; you cough, fingers heavy as they dig into the flesh of his still-denim clas thighs; drool trickles onto his balls. The hand remains there, though, pushing you and keeping you pinned in place as he slowly thrusts upward. You haven’t even gotten him all the way.

You gag and sputter, eyes fully watering the harder Carlos bullies his cock into your throat; you’re dizzy with arousal and submission, maybe one, maybe both, you’re too far gone.

“Easy,” he orders, and you will yourself to breathe nasally, relaxing, burying more of him in you. He loves seeing you like this, hair all pretty—his braid, too—and on your knees, trying your best to please him. “Being so good for me, good girl,” he says, losing resolve. You’re so pretty when you cry, eyes rimmed and bloodshot, tear streaks all over your cheekbones.

He ruts shallowly into your throat, every move punctuated by a guttural gag from your end—once, twice, a third time, before finally he releases you. You let out a cough, and a gasp, breathy, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip. He doesn’t want to cum yet—not like this. You gaze up at him, big eyes anticipating, and he guides you upward, on the bed.

He kicks his jeans off and readjusts his briefs, watches you scramble to position yourself on the bed, sitting down properly. “Will you fuck me now?” You ask, your sweet voice raspy. He likes knowing he’s the reason why.

You inch yourself backward so you’re fully on his bed, a hand traveling to stop your tiny dress from riding up any further. He steps closer, one knee on the bed, caging you in again, and stops you. His gaze flickers down to your legs, forces your knees apart so he can see in between them. Your pretty cunt’s soaked through your panties. “Don’t hide from me,” he says, voice rough as he steps back off the bed and kneels beside it.

“Carlos,” you breathe, letting him have his way with you. Your mind’s all fuzzy, but it’s okay—he takes care of you. 

Strong arms snake around your thighs and pull you toward him until your cunt is level with his face. His breath, warm, fans against you, muted by the thin fabric of your panties and it does nothing to help the unadulterated, dirty arousal throbbing in your cunt. He bites at the flesh of your inner thigh, then hooks two fingers into your panties and pulls them aside.

The taste of you is so good; it goes straight to Carlos’ head. And all of your embarrassed, whiny whimpers, the way your fingers knot helplessly into his hair as he drags his tongue up your cunt — that drives him absolutely crazy. He licks at your pussy, sticks his tongue in, nudges your clit with his nose, ekes whimpers and debauched moans out of your lips.

He pushes two fingers into you, doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s fucking them in and out, moans spilling out of you involuntarily. It’s lewd, it’s dirty, getting his friend’s daughter all spread out for him like this, but Carlos loves it. More, you sob, more, please, I need—yeah—

His skilled tongue doesn’t let up, continues toying with you, licking up all the arousal oozing out of your cunt. He eats you, fucks you with his fingers, until your eyes are welling up with overwhelm and the need to release, your hands pulling at his long hair—your pussy dripping, quivering, right at the edge of your orgasm.

Any of the reservations you had are now out the window. Your grip on Carlos’ hair is tight, pushing his head deeper into your pussy and grinding against his mouth mindlessly.

I’m cumming—!

Your voice is so dirty, so lewd, so needy, when you finally finish around him, slick dripping out and your pussy twitching, clenching and unclenching around nothing as you release. Panting, you hoist yourself on your elbows, your braid surprisingly intact, and pout down at him.

“I said fuck me.”

“So you complain,” he responds with a coy smile, his lips shiny with your slick. You want him to fuck you stupid.

He does eventually, gets you all calm and lying down on the bed, knees to your chest. Your feet cross and uncross with anticipation. He lets his cock rest first on your stomach, where it twitches, smearing precum under your belly button.

“That’s where you’ll be,” you say, stroking him. When he finally does begin thrusting into you, he wishes he could save the image of your pretty eyes fluttering closed, puffy lips open in a whimper.

Your legs tremble with the size you’re taking, his hand gentle as it is firm on your hips, forcing you to take him, take him good, take him better. Good girl, he’s saying, good fucking girl. Inch by inch, you struggle to take all of him, his girth thicker than what your cunt is willing to take. You’re positive you’ll feel him in your stomach.

“Carlos,” you whimper, voice aching.

“Fuck,” is all he can muster, watching your pussy swallow him. “So tight.”

He’s drunk on the feeling of you, wet and clenching around him, so tight. He can tell you’re high on it too, on the stretch of him, the way you keep trying to meet every thrust, legs already beginning to tremble with pleasure and deep arousal. He bottoms out, an expletive leaving him in Spanish, and then slowly begins to fuck in and out of you.

He watches your face, the way your brows knit as you take him, take his cock, eyelides fluttering. “So good,” you moan, mouth open. He drops a glob of spit onto your tongue, tells you to swallow—you do, presenting your empty tongue to him. Good girl, prettiest girl—any and all praise leaves him in dizzy, heady breaths.

“Teasing me for so long,” he pants, his dick splitting you in half. “This what you wanted? Hmm?”

But even in your cloudy mind, you find the grit to retaliate, teasingly, a cloy smile on your lips. “You said it was wrong,” you gasp out with every thrust. “Fucking your friend’s daughter.”

“But you love it,” Carlos goads. “Do you?”

You nod, cockdrunk, but it’s not enough. “Use your words, pretty. You can do it.”

“I do, I love it. I need more,” you whine, getting off on his teasing, on the implication that this is all wrong, that neither of you should be doing this. “Needed this so much, Carlos.” You crack your eyes open to watch the bulge in your abdomen, the shape of his girth splitting you open. He slams into you harder and you try to squirm away, but he keeps you pinned in place.

“And if your dad walked in?”

You gush slick all over him. “Carlos,” you plead.

“Saw his daughter taking his friend’s dick?” He says it low into your ear, bending to make sure you hear all of it. “Taking it like a good girl, too.” He pulls out, slaps your ruined hole with his dick, then shoves it in deep again, groaning when you cry out—getting off on you whining about how sensitive you are, the way you tremble under him and around him. Your pretty little face, all sweaty and ruined.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m, Carlos—I’m gonna cum,” you say, nodding. You’ve probably cum twice already, little bursts of pleasure causing your cunt to twitch around him, sensitive. “Can I—?” 

“That’s it,” he praises. “Come on, cum for me. Been so good for me.” You tremble around him as you finish, broken moans fucked out of you with every surge of his hips forward.

He’s close, too, having held off fucking you for the past how many days, and you can tell; his thrusts get shallower, faster, until his hips are stuttering and he’s panting your name out, long hair framing his flushed, pretty face. You reach up to comb a hand through it. “Cum inside me,” you beg, watching him go crazy, his nostrils flaring and eyes blinking quick. 

He pumps his cum into you, thrusting several times as he rides it out, fucking you full of him, of his cum. You relish in the feeling, of being his girl, his good girl. “You’re a mess,” he comments, his face buried into your neck. He pulls out, both of you sighing at the sight and feeling of his cum dribbling out of you, onto the bed.

You unfold your legs, sitting up despite how sore you feel. Your dress is damp with sweat, and slick, and cum. “I feel a mess.” You pout.

“You look pretty.”

“Can I sleep here tonight?” You ask, voice meek. He nods, holds you tight as you both drift off, like he knows that you won’t be his to call his by the time the summer wanes and Comporta is left empty again.

—

“It’s the post-race interview,” Ali calls. “Hurry!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” You hop into the living room, tossing her the bag of popcorn she’d requested you to cook. Fall has officially dawned upon the city, adorning it with orange and red leaves, jazz music and cold nights—and weekends watching races.

Around you, all your university friends watch with intense gazes at the winner of the latest Formula One grand prix—something none of you had been remotely interested in just months prior.

You watch, eyes glittering, at the winner. Tan skin, long hair, jogging over to the journalist. Sainz, what a stellar drive! She sounds awestruck, genuinely taken aback by his dominance on the track today. She asks for a message in Spanish, as always; a few words of inspiration, and then, just as a fun little tidbit—did you have a good luck charm today?

He smiles to himself, like he’s just heard an inside joke and seems to think for a minute. “No, not really.” Then he combs a hand through his hair. There, looped around his wrist, is a pretty, pale pink ribbon.

[cameronspecial]

how about we go a lil angsty? the reader hadn’t yet told him about her being pregnant bcs she remembers Drew once said he doesnt know if he wants to be a dad and so she tried to bring the topic up with hypothetical questions and his answers not exactly the thing she wanted to hear so she went all silent and pulled herself away and stuff.

I dont wanna give it away, so please you decide the ending..either they communicate and Dad!Rafe rise or…

I Want This

Pairing: Dad!Drew Starkey x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of Abortions and Miscommunication

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.2K

Masterlist

Well… She doesn’t know what she expected the results to be, but this is definitely an answer. Y/N doesn’t even think she can focus on the opinion she has of this situation because all she can think about is Drew’s.

———

“Awww, Babe, look at this pic of Lils that Mac sent me,” he gushed, holding his phone up to his fiancée. She looked up from her laptop, “So cute. Ugh, I miss them so much. I mean look at those little baby rolls. I just want to cuddle the cutie.” He smiled and brought her head under the crook of his neck. “I know. We have to visit them soon. I’m so glad I have a niece. It means I can be the fun uncle forever and never have to be a dad,” he mindlessly thought out loud, going back to scrolling on his phone. This caused her to freeze; they never talked about having kids, but he was so good with them that she assumed he would want them. She should’ve asked him about it because she wanted them. She didn’t though. Kids were important to her and so was Drew. She wasn’t ready to cause a rift in their relationship because of something small. 

———

Staring at the positive pregnancy test, she has to figure out a way to gauge how he would feel about it before actually telling him the truth. Once she knows how he feels, it will help her decide how she wants to feel about it seeing that if they are on the opposite page, then she would have to make a difficult decision. She shoves the positive tests into the box and hides them in her makeup drawer. He never goes looking there. She exits the bathroom, lets out a deep breath, and heads to the kitchen to start getting lunch ready. Drew is coming home from filming in Morocco later today. The music blasting through the speakers makes her unaware of the new presence in the house. He smiles at the dancing silhouette cutting potatoes. His hand drops over her eyes and she sets the knife down with a grin. Her arms wrap around her neck to bring him down towards her. This allows her to pepper his face with kisses. “Hey, you weren’t supposed to be back until tonight,” she notices, turning the music off. His hand rests on her hip, “I was, but I was offered an early flight and I couldn’t say no to seeing my girl early. I missed you and I love you.” She sinks into his hold. “I missed and love you too.”

The couple spend the next half an hour cooking together before settling themselves at the dining room table. Since they talked to each other throughout cooking, silence falls over them. A chime comes from his phone and he checks it to see a text from his sister. “Mac is planning on coming down with Lils and my mom soon. They can stay in the guest room, right?” Drew confirms, reading over the text again. She nods, “Yeah, I’ll get it ready over the weekend and buy one of those travelling crib things for Lils. It is going to be fun to have a baby around the house. The guest room would make a nice baby room in the future. It has nice big windows and the closet is the perfect size.” The chuckle that comes out of his mouth drops her stomach into a furnace. 

“What’s so funny?” she questions. He shrugs, “Not the babysitting part. They could both use a break and I will never say no to spending time with my niece. It’s just the thought of having to turn the guest room into a baby room is funny.” 

“Oh, why?”

“I don’t know. It’s a guest room. I mean where would our family stay when they come over?” 

“Yeah, where would they stay?”

She should probably ask if he meant he can’t imagine the room as a baby room right now or if it was a forever thought; however, she is scared of the answer she is going to get so she shuts down the conversation. They sit in a new tension-filled silence that he pretends he can’t feel. 

———

After lunch, Y/N retreats to the backyard to swing in the hammock. This tells him that she needs some space and he knows she is upset when she is still outside at eleven p.m. The friction of the patio door sliding against each other makes her turn to him. She doesn’t acknowledge his presence, waiting for him to say something. He places the plate of pasta he made for dinner onto the side table beside the hammock. “I found the pregnancy tests,” he states, bringing one of the patio chairs close to her. She freezes and sits up. Her legs swing over the fabric to face him, “How?” “Maddie helped me pick out clay pot Moroccan lipstick for you and I wanted to surprise you with it. I was going to hide it in your drawer…” he explains, eyes falling to his fingers and trailing off at the end. Her head moves up and down. Her thoughts are moving around her head a thousand miles a second. He is going to break up with her. He is going to make her have an abortion. Or worse. He is going to make her choose between the baby or him on the spot. 

He grows nervous when she doesn’t say anything and his suspicions are confirmed. He understands why she is unsure about talking to him about this. The way he has spoken about having a baby in the past could’ve given her the wrong idea. He hesitantly reaches to place a hand on hers and does it when she doesn’t shy away. “I want you to know that the decision about what we do with the baby is up to you and I will be at your side during the whole process,” he assures. Her confusion causes tears to crop up in her eyes, “You don’t want the baby though. I know that, so if you are going to break up with me because I do, then just do it. But making me have to choose is kinda cruel.” His heart squeezes, hating that his words aren’t coming out as he means them to be. His head shakes like crazy and he sits beside her. He brings her head against his chest, “Babe, I don’t want to break up with you. I want to have this baby with you too.”

“You want the baby? Then how come you don’t think the guest room would be a good baby room?”

“Because my office would be a better one. The windows aren’t too big so it won’t wake the baby up in the morning and the closet there is even bigger, so when they get older they can have as many clothes as their heart desires.”

“Okay, you are right… What about when you said you want to be an uncle forever and never be a dad?”

“Honestly, I never really thought I would want to be a dad. I was content with being an uncle, but, Babe, when I found that pregnancy test, all I could think about was how happy I was to be bringing a child into the world with the most amazing woman in the world and I couldn’t wait to raise them with you.”

She leans back and rests a warm palm on his cheeks, trying to hold back her tears. “So you want to have this baby?” she verifies. He kisses the tears away, “I want this, Babe. I promise. We are going to do this. Together.”

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @thepatriarchykeychain @drewsmusee @starkowswife @maybankslover @forstarkey @loving-and-dreaming @magicalyoura

[kpopscatterbrain]

Kdramas/Movies with strong female characters

Dramas

Eve (2022): Lee La-El (Seo Yea-Ji) When Lee La-El was little, her father died unexpectedly. Powerful people were responsible for his death. After her family was destroyed, Lee La-El prepared for the next 13 years to take revenge. Starting by targeting Kang Yoon-gyeom, one of the main culprits who orchestrated the death of her father. Along the way she becomes torn between her desire for revenge and her feelings for Yoon-gyeom.

It's Okay To Not Be Okay (2020): Ko Moon-Young (Seo Yea-Ji) Ko Moon-Young is a popular children's book author with antisocial personality disorder. She had a troubled childhood and a turbulent relationship with her parents. She develops romantic feelings for a psychiatric caregiver after a coincidental encounter and often goes to extreme lengths to get his attention.

Hotel Del Luna (2019): Jang Man-Wol (IU) Jang Man-Wol is the moody owner of Hotel del Luna. The hotel catering to the dead has been bound to her soul in order to atone for the sins she committed 1,300 years ago. Through the new manager Gu Chan-sung, the mysteries and the secrets behind the hotel and its owner are revealed

My Name (2021): Yoon Ji-Woo (Han So-Hee) Yoon Ji-Woo’s father gets murdered suddenly. She wants to desperately take revenge on whoever is responsible for her father's death. She starts working for a drug crime ring that her father was a part of. Ji-Woo joins the police department as a mole for the drug ring.

Vagabond (2019): Go Hae-Ri (Bae Suzy) Go Hae-Ri is an NIS agent and is currently working undercover at the Korean embassy in Morocco. She is tasked to help the bereaved families of a fatal flight. She helps Cha Dal-Geon whose nephew was on the flight uncover a darker and more sinister conspiracy than they expected.

Sisyphus: The Myth (2021): Gang Seo-Hae (Park Shin-Hye) Gang Seo-Hae is an elite warrior. She can take down the biggest men with just her bare hands. She is a sharpshooter and a bombmaker. She learned these skills to survive in a world that is dominated by gangsters and military cliques. One day she time travels to save a genius engineer.

Mr. Sunshine (2018): Go Ae-Shin (Kim Tae-Ri) Go Ae-Shin is an orphaned noblewoman and a member of the Righteous Army. Her parents were independence fighters who died in Japan due to their colleague's betrayal. She trains as a sniper. An american soldier Eugene meets and falls in love with Go Ae-shin. 

The Glory (2022): Moon Dong-Eun (Song Hye-Kyo) Moon Dong-Eun was a victim of high school violence. She waited for the bully ring leader get married and have a child. Now she is the homeroom teacher of her tormentor's child. Her cruel revenge plot begins.

Tomorrow (2022): Koo Ryeon (Kim Hee-Seon) Grim reaper Koo Ryeon is the leader of a crisis management team. The teams objective is to save suicidal people. Choi Jun-Woong (Ro Woon) is a young job seeker who is unable to secure a job. One night, he accidentally becomes a new member of the crisis management team.

Remarriage & Desires (2022): Seo Hye-Seung (Kim Hee-Seon) Seo Hye-seung who lost everything in an instant after her husbands affair and su*cide. She signs up to a matchmaking company Rex for the upper class, and participates in the race of her desires for her revenge.

Under The Queen's Umbrella (2022): Queen Hwaryeong (Kim Hye-Soo) Queen Hwaryeong is supposed to act with grace and dignity, but she has troublemaker sons. The queen decides to abandon strict protocols to transform her sons into deserving princes through education and personal growth, all while navigating the complexities of motherhood and royal life.

Juvenile Justice (2022): Sim Eun-Seok (Kim Hye-Soo) Sim Eun-Seok is an elite judge with a personality that seems unfriendly to others. She hates juvenile criminals and gets assigned to a local juvenile court. There, she breaks custom and administers her own ways of punishing the offenders.

K-Movies

Kill Boksoon (2023): Gil Bok-Soon (Jeon Do-Yeon) Gil Bok-Soon is a single mother and a contract killer working for M. K. Ent. Highly regarded by her peers, she has a 100% success rate and is one of a few killers rated "A" by her company. Right before Gil Bok-Soon is set to renew her contract, she gets involved in a kill or be killed confrontation.

Ballerina (2023): Jang Ok-Ju (Jun Jong-Seo) Ok-Ju used to work as a bodyguard. Ok-Ju is friends with Min-Hee, who is a ballerina. Min-Hee asks Ok-Ju for a favor. She wants Ok-Ju to take revenge.

The Witch: Subversion (2018): Ja-Yoon (Kim Da-Mi) A young girl escapes from a mysterious laboratory where she was trained to become a murder weapon. 10 years later, the girl, named Ja-yoon, is living a normal life, apparently without any memory of her past, she becomes involved in a crime.

Special Delivery (2022): Eun-Ha (Park So-Dam) Eun-Ha is a special driver for deliveries. She delivers anything or anyone for the right price. Her success rate is 100%, but she gets involved in an unexpected delivery accident.

Brave Citizen (2023): So Shi-Min (Shin Hae-Sun) So Shi-Min used to be a boxer in her student days. She now works as a contract teacher at a high school. She confronts a school bully, who frequently torments other students.

[tessa-liam]

Turning the Page

Only You Can Love Me This Way 

Chapter 13 

Choices, The Royal Romance, The Royal Heir AU 

Series Premise: As Riley Brooks journeys through life as a single parent in New York City, an epiphany strikes as she contemplates the future for herself and her two-year-old son. 

Turning the Page Series Masterlist

My Complete Masterlist 

Main pairing: Liam Rys x F!OC Riley Brooks 

All characters belong to Pixelberry Studios, except William Brooks (Rys) and Matteo Magro, who both belong to this series. 

Category: On-going series, contains angst/fluff/depression. Cross-over fic with Choices, Perfect Match. 

Rating: M 🔞 - Warnings – Series will have crude language, weapons, NSFW material – not Beta’d - please excuse all errors. 

Words: 3624 

Only You Can Love Me This Way

Chapter Summary: Olivia continues to mentor Riley on how to adapt to Cordonian nobility. Maxwell, Bertrand and Savannah babysit William and Bartie, taking them on a Lythikan adventure. Liam and Riley re-connect and discover that their love story is stronger and better than ever. 

Music & Title Inspiration: Only You Can Love Me This Way, Keith Urban 

A/N1: In this alternate universe, after King Constantine orchestrates two individual scandals to humiliate and entrap Riley Brooks and Olivia Nevrakis in shame, Madeleine Amaranth secures her position as the Queen of Cordonia. Riley, as the King’s mistress and Olivia, in self-imposed exile. Tariq is never found.  

A/N2: Damien Nazario has been assigned as William’s personal bodyguard. (Series cross-over with ‘Perfect Match’) 

A/N3: My submission for choicesjunechallenge, prompts: spatial-hotel / temporal-beginning/   dialogue- “Up for a little trip?” 

El Alami residence, Rabat, Morocco 

With her ankles crossed delicately underneath her, Madeleine El Alami pulled out her cellular to check the status of the Uber driver. It was still incredibly early in the morning in Morocco, and time was of the essence. Her flight was scheduled to leave in ninety minutes from Rabat – Sale International airport and nothing and/or no one was going to halt her journey. Not even her husband.  

Peeking out from between the fence columns outside her home, she could see the city coming alive as the sun's first rays illuminated the horizon. The people who had been hushed moments before, now filled the streets, greeting each other and heading off to start their day. It was a side of life Madeleine had never experienced before, a stark contrast to the opulence and splendor of her former life at the Cordonian palace. It was a reminder of the sacrifices she had made to follow her heart to be with her lover, Eduardo.  

Now five months pregnant, the former queen, now the wife to the Moroccan diplomat, was leaving this world behind. While her husband slept, Madeleine, along with two hand servants were waiting for the Uber vehicle to roll to a stop at the estate’s front entrance. Her suitcases were hefted on board, as she sat down in the rear seat and buckled herself in. The driver shut the door and the car slowly rolled away, the servants went back inro the estate. 

Her parents' disappointment and dismay had only grown when she told them about her unborn baby on their last visit. Her father coaxed her to pack up and return to his duchy in Karlington, England and start over. Her mother wanted her to move back home to Krona, Cordonia. As usual her parents were worlds apart when it came to their only daughter and her well-being, but they were united against Eduardo. 

However, she was done with being controlled by Eduardo.  Done with her father's demands and her mother's nagging. This time, she was going to do what she wanted to do. And what she wanted to do was to spend the rest of her pregnancy alone. 

As she Uber drove to the airport, Madeleine left her husband, forever closing that chapter, watching the world go by; but not seeing anything. Her mind turned to the letter she had left for her husband. She had no regrets for her actions but hoped her words would provide solace for him. 

She felt nothing. No sadness. No loss.  

She had already mourned her former life and the loss of her title as queen. In its place was a new sense of freedom. And with that new sense of freedom came the hope for a new life, with the baby growing inside her. 

Nevrakis Lodge, Lythikos, Cordonia 

"Are you excited to see Uncle Maxwell and Aunt Savannah today, William?" Liam spoke as he was getting his little prince ready for the day. William giggled. "Yeah!" 

"And you get to ride in a carriage! You have never ridden in one before, have you?" Liam smiled as his son's excitement grew. "YES! Horsies!" the little boy replied enthusiastically, his eyes wide with excitement. Liam chuckled. "Let's go get some breakfast and then we can go and wait for Uncle Max.” 

"Okay, daddy!" William beamed; his excitement shined brightly from his big blue eyes. 

As they entered the hallway, they heard a familiar voice call out, "William! Look at how big you are!" 

"Unca Max!" William cried out, running towards his favorite uncle. 

Maxwell scooped the little boy up in a bear hug, smiling widely. "We're going to have so much fun today, little man!" 

"Where's Bartie?" William was concerned, his eyes searching for his newfound best friend. 

"I'm over here," Bartie replied, popping out from behind his mother. "I wanna play with the horses, too. Can we, Mommy? Pleeease?" 

Savannah gave her son a loving smile. "Well as long as the two of you eat your breakfast first." William bounded over to his little friend. "YAY!" The boys both cheered. Liam strolled over, "Savannah, hello. You look well this morning," Liam kissed her cheek. 

"As do you, your majesty," she replied with a curtsy, bowing her head. “Liam, I am so happy and excited for you and Riley.”

"Thank you, Savannah."

Liam clapped Maxwell on the shoulder. "It is good to see you both, too, Lord Beaumont, Duke Ramsford." 

“Your majesty.” Bertrand bowed and smiled, then stepped back to join his wife. 

"Good to see you too, Li." Maxwell grinned at his childhood friend, as the men watched the boys follow Savannah as she grasped their hands. 

Liam shook his head, a grin on his face. "Those two are inseparable. It's a good thing Bertrand has gotten over his fear of children." 

Maxwell laughed. "Bertrand loves kids, he just has to be the most uptight person on the planet." 

Liam chuckled. "I suppose that's true." 

"Hey Max, are you ready?" called out Savannah from down the hall. 

"Ready to eat always, Savvie ... as I"ll ever be," Maxwell replied, turning to Liam. "So, what's the plan for today?" 

Liam gave a mischievous smile. "Well, I thought you could spend the day with William and Bartie, giving Riley and I a chance to have some alone time." 

Maxwell grinned. "Hah ... sounds like fun," he winked. "You're going to owe me, though." 

Liam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever you want." 

Maxwell chuckled. "Alright, let's get this show on the road. The kids and my stomach are waiting." 

Liam turned back to adjust his tie and reached for his suit jacket which was draped over a wing chair. He walked to the foyer to meet with Riley and Olivia, Bastien following discreetly behind him. 

"You're dismissed, Damien," Liam said. "I appreciate your vigilance. 

“Of course," Damien bowed and took his leave, joining the other members of the Royal Guard in the hallway. As he closed the door, his eyes wandered across the hallway, where he watched Olivia wrapping William in a hug before turning toward the foyer and the waiting limo outside. 

Damien had been captivated by Olivia from the moment they were introduced. As he watched her wrap the little crown prince in a hug, his mind wandered. 

He could not help but admire her grace and elegance, the way her fiery hair shone underneath the chandelier or when her eyes sparkled when she laughed. 

Damien knew he could never have her, but the thought of being able to spend time with her, to make her laugh and see her smile, was enough to fuel his dreams. 

He wondered what it would be like to hold her in his arms, to kiss her soft lips and feel her body pressed against his. 

But that was all it could ever be, a fantasy, a dream. 

‘What would a Duchess ever see in a guardsman? Olivia is a rare beauty,’ Damien mused. ‘She's not like any other noble, and she doesn't seem to care about the status or title.’ 

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening, and he straightened up, adjusting his uniform. 

As Damien thoughts went back to his post, his eyes drifted back to Olivia, and he could not help but wonder if there was a chance, however small, that his dreams could become a reality. 

*** 

“Olivia, why are you being so secretive?”  Riley inquired again, after spending the morning shopping for clothes and accessories in the city center, the limousine rolled to a stop at the Nevrakis lodge entrance. 

Bastien opened the limousine door as Olivia stepped out. Glancing back to Riley, she smirked, “You are one lucky lady”. Riley’s eyebrow lifted in question. “You, my dear have a final challenge to endure." 

Riley sat and blinked as she took in her words. After reaching for her bags Riley turned her attention to exit the limo after Olivia, when she heard a deep baritone voice, "...Hi." 

Riley looked up to see a six-foot, 4-inch-tall familiar man looking at her with a huge smile. Dressed in a crisp, sleek suit overtopped by an Armani topcoat 

"Liam? ...What are you doing here?" Riley’s eyes went wide as she looked up at her lover. 

"...And dressed like that?”  

“Love, I wouldn't dream of being underdressed for your final challenge." Liam smirked and then chuckled softly watching Riley’s look of disbelief. 

"So, you're here for the challenge too?" 

"You bet. I've been waiting for this moment since you came back to Cordonia." 

"Liam, what is going on?" 

 “This is our final destination. According to Olivia, I am the challenge.” 

"And that would be?" 

Liam smiled wide, not giving out any clues.

"Oh my, this isn't a game show, right?" 

"Not to worry, love. All I know is that Olivia has prepared something for us and it's a surprise." 

"Okay. So, what is this surprise? Please tell me."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to spoil the fun." 

"Liam, I don't like surprises." 

"Love, I know ...I can see that. But, I think you will like this one. This is our last day in Lythikos; I've already been briefed and we're going to have a blast." 

Olivia’s watched their exchange and added, “the last thing you need to get back into fighting form is to reconnect with what you are fighting for. 

...And you have always been driven by your love for Liam; for your family.”

Liam slid his arm around Riley’s waist pulling her close to him. “Which was an unusually sentimental thing to hear Olivia say.” 

Olivia sighed, “a bit saccharine for my tastes, but to each their own. I always thought love was a weakness, but you seem to actually draw strength from each other.” 

Riley’s scrunched her eyebrows, “Just to be clear, my last challenge is to spend time with King Liam Rys?” 

“The whole day, actually. Olivia is taking us into town.” 

“Everyone else will help me take care of William while you’re away.” Olivia added.

“Sweet! Free daycare! I’m really warming up to Lythikos hospitality.” 

“It’s a circumstantial offer. Cherish it while it lasts.” 

Liam kissed Riley’s cheek, “believe me, we plan to.” 

“But Olivia, you’re supposed to be looking into our Madeleine problem....and the press.” 

“Damien and I will dhave everything covered; I promise. 

And you have your marching orders. Reconnect and start fresh, that you may crush your enemies on the morrow.” 

Liam grinned, “Ah, Romantic.” Placing his hand on the small of her back, Liam steered Riley back into the lodge to change into the evening wear that she bought in town. 

Standing at the entrance of the dining room, along with the other guards, Damien Nazario stood vigilantly watching the crown prince. His eyes were sharp and ever watchful. As a trained ex-secret service agent and bodyguard, he knew when people were watching. 

His attention was suddenly drawn to a smattering of voices outside in the main hall, and a moment later, Duchess Olivia Nevrakis entered the dining room, and Damien felt his breath catch. 

She was stunning. She had been stunning the night before, but he had not noticed her beauty fully. This morning, the Duchess wore a form fitting black and grey suit. Her vibrant red hair was done up in a chignon. Damien was entranced by her, but he knew better than to stare. He tore his eyes away from her and glanced down at the floor, taking in the shiny black patent leather of her boots. He swallowed, wondering how they would feel around his neck. He shook his head, trying to clear the image from his mind. He looked up, and his eyes once again caught sight of her, this time her stormy blue green eyes were looking straight into his. 

She arched an eyebrow and tilted her head as she regarded him. Damien's cheeks warmed. 

"Good morning," a voice sounded beside him. 

"Morning," he mumbled, glancing back to where the Duchess had been, only to find her gone. 

Drake chuckled. "See something you like?” 

***

Inside the limo, Liam and Riley arrived outside an upscale restaurant in the city center.

Bastien opened rhe passenger door and Liam stepped out, holding out his hand for Riley. She took it and climbed out of the limo. She gasped when she looked at the building in front of her. "This is beautiful." 

"You are beautiful," Liam smiled. "And tonight, you will be dining on the best seafood this side of Paris." 

"That's a high bar to live up to." Riley's eyebrows raised. 

Liam chuckled. "It can certainly get the job done." 

They were escorted inside the restaurant, with Liam's hand on the small of her back as they were led to a secluded table overlooking the city center. 

Liam pulled out Riley's chair and she sat down, exposing her long tanned leg through the side slit of her cocktail dress. He sat down and his eyes drank in the sight of her, his gaze lingering on her legs. 

Riley blushed. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare." Liam looked down. 

Riley reached across the table and took his hand in hers. "Look all you want, Your Majesty." 

Liam lifted his head and locked eyes with her, his blue orbs sparkling. "I have wanted to do this since the night of the Coronation Ball. You were breathtaking that night. I wanted to sweep you into my arms and dance the night away with you. But there was always someone or something getting in the way." 

Riley grasped Liam's hands in hers ...

"Mmm, this whole place smells like fresh bread. I want to eat that smell." 

"I will order the kitchen to prepare you a fresh loaf immediately." Liam grinned. 

Riley threw her head back and laughed. 

"Please do. After Olivia's challenges, I feel like I could devour this entire restaurant." 

"I love the sound of your laugh," Liam whispered. 

Riley's heart skipped a beat. 

Liam's grin widened. "I hope we have many more dates just like this. After Olivia's unique brand of 'help', we've definitely earned this day." 

Riley giggled. "That was the nicest way of saying Olivia was a royal pain in the ass." 

Liam let out a chuckle. "That was very diplomatic of me, thank you." 

Liam smiled as a steaming breadbasket and the entrees were set down on the table. The waiter tops off Riley's red wine and sets a glass of scotch down for Liam. 

Riley picked up her glass and held it aloft. "A toast. To us." 

"To us," he echoed, clinking his glass against hers. 

As Riley takes a sip, the waiter places a small dish in front of her. Inside is a thick chocolate sauce in the shape of a heart, the word "love" written in script, and two berries. 

Riley looked from the dish to Liam, her lips curled into a mischievous smile. "Chocolate covered strawberries? Are you trying to seduce me, Liam?" 

"That depends," Liam replied, a matching grin forming on his face. 

"On what?" Riley asked. 

"Whether or not it's working," he whispered. 

Riley's eyes met his and they burned with desire. 

"I'll take that as a yes." His grin widened and he leaned across the table. Liam took Riley's hand in his, his fingers tracing slow circles on the back of her hand. "You are beautiful. I wish we could have been together from the start." 

Riley's lips formed a soft smile. "So do I, Liam. I don't want this night to end." 

"It doesn't have to." Liam reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, laying them on the table between them. 

"Up for a little trip?” 

Riley's eyes widened. "Are you suggesting we run away together?" 

"One of the best kept secrets in Lythikos is a glass igloo tucked away in the mountains. The perfect view of the stars, the perfect view of the valley." 

Riley bit her lip and looked up at him from under her lashes. "I think I might have found the perfect view right here." 

"It's also very secluded. Not another soul for miles." Liam winked. 

Demurely smiling, Riley added, "I can think of a few ways to take advantage of that." 

"So can I ... if you're up for the trip." 

Riley picked up the keys, the smile on her face growing wider. "Let's skip the dinner and jump right to the dessert."

"Then we should leave right now," he suggested, his eyes never leaving hers. After a few calls, Liam stands and offers his arm to Riley. 

Riley slipped her arm through his and together they headed out of the restaurant, and back into the waiting limo. 

The driver was already waiting and pulled the car into the traffic. They passed through the city streets and up into the mountains. It was dark when the car finally pulled up in front of a domed glass structure. Stepping inside, the entire frozen mountainside stretched out around on all sides, a beautiful aurora shined through the ceiling panels. 

"Oh Liam, this place is unreal ... it's all the natural wonder of camping with the comfort of a five star hotel." 

"And a lot more privacy." Liam added.

"After the past few weeks, I really wanted to get you away and alone," Liam softly spoke, his arms slipping around Riley's waist. 

She placed her hands over his. "Me, too. I don't want this day to end." 

"I have one more surprise for you." 

Riley smiled. "Is that why you brought me here? For a surprise?" 

"No. I brought you here because I want to be alone with you." He kissed her cheek, his lips trailing along her jawline and down her neck. 

Riley's eyelids fluttered and she tilted her head back. "Mmm, is that so?" 

Liam nuzzled his nose against the spot behind her ear. "I wanted to do this all evening." 

"What's stopping you now?" 

He grinned. "Nothing." 

Liam pressed his lips to hers. She melted into him and deepened the kiss. His tongue sought hers and they moved together in unison. He cupped her ass and pulled her into him, her curves conforming to his body. 

Riley's hands tangled into his hair, her fingers tugging. Liam moaned into her mouth, his desire rising. Together tumbling back onto the bed, legs tangling as they fall down onto the plush mattress. 

A while later, Liam's fingers combed absently through Riley's hair as they watched the way the colors and lights swirled around, constantly changing.... It was hypnotic. 

"When I look up into the sky ... I see you. I see something beautiful, brilliant, untamable ... a breathtaking force of nature. I know that we have been through a lot, but when you're in my arms like this ... I also know that we can find a way through it together, if you'll let me."

Riley sighed happily. "Liam..."

*I know, love, that I said I wouldn't bring it up again, but after tonight, I need to tell you that I'm so sorry for everything." 

"Liam, it's okay, I know you had to do it. I know the weight of the world was on your shoulders, and you had to do what's best for your people, that's your duty. But you have to also do what's best for yourself. We all do." 

Liam's grip tightened slightly around her waist. "That's what I want. You...

"Riley. I love you. And William. I can't imagine my life without you both in it."

"I love you too, Liam," she whispered. "So much..."

"Do you forgive me?" Liam asked quietly in earnest. 

"Of course, I forgive you. I am so sorry that I was a coward and left without telling you about..."

"SSHHH! There is nothing to forgive you for, Riley. You were just doing what you felt you had to do. I am so sorry that the court was so unfair to you. My father ..." 

"Liam, please. Let's just focus on the present."

"... and the future." LIam added with a kiss...

@choicesficwriterscreations @thosehallowedhalls

[girlactionfigure]

🇮🇱FRIDAY - events from Israel  

✡️Erev Shabbat (before Shabbat) - Parshat (Torah portion) Ki Teitzei - Deuteronomy 21:10 - Seventy-four of the Torah’s 613 commandments (mitzvot) are in this portion. These include: the laws of the beautiful captive, the inheritance rights of the firstborn, the wayward and rebellious son, burial and dignity of the dead, returning a lost object, sending away the mother bird before taking her young, the duty to erect a safety fence around the roof of one’s home, and the various forms of forbidden plant and animal hybrids.

🔹WAR HINTS.. The Lebanese newspaper Al-Nahar : Yesterday, Hezbollah asked the residents of villages in the south to evacuate their homes for fear of extensive security operations by Israel.

▪️FAKE NEWS - IDF CHIEF OF STAFF TO RETIRE.. fake news going around that the IDF chief announced his retirement.  IDF spox: it’s fake news.

▪️UPDATE CAR BOMB (likely criminal) - RAMLA.. car explodes in front of a store, which catches fire. Update: 4 dead, 8 seriously injured.

▪️TWO TRY TO ENTER GAZA?  IDF surveillance detected two Israeli citizens crossing through a gate in the fence into the area of ​​the barrier between Israel and the Gaza Strip. An IDF force was dispatched to the scene, arrested the citizens and transferred them to the police.

▪️POLICE RAID - LOD.. after the car bomb in Ramla yesterday, a special extensive operation of the central district of the police in the early hours of the morning, as part of which hundreds of police officers, including special units, carried out an extensive raid on the compounds of crime families in the Juarish neighborhood in Ramla and in the city of Lod.  Many arrests, weapons seized.

▪️HEZBOLLAH CLAIMS.. from their (thwarted) attack: The Lebanese Almiadin (identified with the Iranian resistance axis) from "European sources":  In the response action to the assassination of Hezbollah Chief of Staff Fuad Shakar, 22 Israeli soldiers from Unit 8200 were killed and 74 were wounded. (This is a false report for internal propaganda purposes.)

▪️HOUTHIS CLAIM.. Muhammad Ali al-Houthi:  The return of the Roosevelt aircraft carrier to Israel and the completion of its mission confirm:  Yemen's victory in the Eternal Revolution of September.  A new victory comes to the Yemeni people with the arrival of the anniversary of the prophet's birthday.  (As above, internal propaganda message - note they think the carrier returned to Israel? And left because of them, rather than because of reduced threat, resupply and other priorities.)

(The point of these two is: see how the enemy is thinking - when there is no success, create one for the masses.)

▪️JUSTICE SYSTEM.. 274 lawyers demand to disband the current bar (lawyers governance association): "it has become political”.

▪️ATTEMPTED KIDNAPPING OF TRAVELING ISRAELIS - NATION OF GEORGIA.. A group of Israeli travelers were subject to surveillance and attempted kidnapping by a group of Arabs and were foiled at the last moment by the intervention of the local police in Georgia (the country). (Ch. 14)

▪️AIR TRAVEL.. FlyDubai increases service to Tel Aviv, 8th daily flight added.  

▪️POLL OF THE WEEK.. Channel 14 (right wing) & Maariv (left wing)

Likud - 29 / 24

National Unity - 18 / 21

Israel our Home - 13 / 14

The Democrats - 11 / 8

Yesh Atid - 10 / 15

Shas - 9 / 9

United Torah Judaism - 8 / 7

Otzma Yehudit - 7 / 9

Ra’am - 6 / 4

Religious Zionism - 5 / 4

Habash Ta’al - 4 / 5

Sa’ar - 1.2% / 1.2%

🔸DEAL NEWS.. Report: Egypt recently received a proposal for the deployment of Arab forces along the Philadelphi border corridor, negotiations are underway with Morocco, Mauritania and Djibouti.  

[hirocimacruiser]

Telefonica Dakar Rally 2004

Nissan's second year in the Dakar Rally was a "challenge to return." Led by Ari Vatanen (Finland), a four-time Dakar Rally winner, the team also added Giniel de Villiers (South Africa) and Colin McRae (Great Britain), a top athlete in the World Rally Championship (WRC), and pushed the Nissan pickup to its limits. Vatanen achieved 50 wins in the Dakar Rally's SS (special stage). Both de Villiers and McRae completed the race, and Nissan's challenge continued into 2005.

Nissan's Dakar project enters its second year

Former WRC champion McRae was welcomed to the team. This showed that this year's rally was a challenge in terms of "speed". In addition, there was the stable Vatanen, Loupe, and the rising star De Villiers. In order to develop Japanese drivers, Yoshio Ikemachi and Atsushi Mitsuhashi were welcomed from the two-wheel team and competed in the T1 (production car) class. Yves Roubaix (France, Nissan Pickup) was forced to withdraw for the first time due to electrical problems.

Although there was unexpected trouble that forced them to retire on the 1st, the efforts of each team member to fulfill their assigned role to the best of their ability were inspiring. Just as the nightmare of the desert and the joy of reaching the finish line at Lac Rose seemed to be fading away, McRae, who had competed in the Dakar Rally for the first time and had many hardships, spoke again about the following.

"I will challenge the Dakar again next year with a Nissan Pickup.

This year's rally gave me confidence. I can win the Dakar with Nissan! I believe that without a doubt.

I’m here.”

Nissan Works' 2004 Dakar Rally started on an exciting note. In the European stage at Castellon (Spain), De Villier took the top time in the 9km 35 (race section), demonstrating his speed to the passionate Spanish fans. After crossing the Straits of Gibraltar, in the first African stage, Vatanen, who has won the Dakar Rally four times, achieved his long-cherished dream of winning 50 special stage races in total. In his second year back in the desert with Nissan, De Villier set a new personal record.

Nissan Pickup Runs Hot as Records are Breaking

"I had wanted to achieve this feat in the Dakar, but I'm happy to achieve my 50th victory at the start of the African stage."

Vatanen is, of course, the most successful driver in the Dakar Rally. Next is F1 and Le Mans winner Jacky Ickx (Belgium), who has 29 wins. The record he achieved in a Nissan Pickup is unlikely to be broken anytime soon.

Since Nissan decided to challenge the Dakar Rally in 2003, Ari Vatanen has become a symbol of Nissan. He has always been a figure of attention, and still shows top-class driving. In 2004, Colin McRae's participation in the Dakar Rally increased the attention of the British media. The Nissan Pick Up attracted attention from all over the world. The trio of Vatanen, McRae, and de Villiers fought a high-speed battle in the desert against Mitsubishi Pajero Evolution, BMW X5, Volkswagen Race Touareg, and Schlesser Buggy. They attacked boldly. Vatanen lost a lot of time after getting splashed while crossing a river in Morocco, but the next day he started from 90th place and finished 7th in the stage. He overtook more than 80 slower cars with the speed of a veteran to complete the stage.

PIC CAPTIONS opening page

Taking advantage of last year's success, the Nissan team's top-flight teammate, G. de Villiers, took the lead on the 7th. This South African challenger held off the unreasonable Bush and drove the car to the finish line.

Ikemachi won his class in his first attempt at a four-wheeled vehicle. He brought a ray of hope to the Nissan team, who were generally forced to make difficult decisions. He demonstrated the durability of the machine and the effectiveness of the training program. And he showed Ikemachi's own potential.

____________________________________________________

It surprised everyone.

McRae also mastered the dune running and became a "Peterran"

"There were times when we were catching up with Sel and Masuoka," he said. But the "three days of hell" were about to begin for the Nissan Works team. After troubles occurred in succession in the eighth and ninth stages, Vatanen and McRae were still stuck in the desert by the evening of the 9th. The team was worried. If things continued like this, both would have to retire. However, the rally was being watched by a gang of bandits (the Malian anti-government group).

The team was warned by intelligence sources that the Mobuchi stage was likely to be occupied by the French army, and decided to move on to the next stage via Bamako. It's not over yet. The deadline is 6pm on the 12th, the rest day.

At the time the announcement was made, the two Nissan Pick Ups, excluding de Villiers, were still stranded in the desert.

Two Nissan cars, two big names in particular, won

Whether or not you can wear it within the time limit. That is the maximum for rest days.

It became a hot topic. Two days passed, and the 12th came.

The team believed in them and waited patiently. McRae arrived around 3pm, and Vatanen arrived after 4pm, welcomed by the press as if they had won. Their rally wasn't over yet. The two started the next morning without a rest day. However... Vatanen was driving too hard and was bounced over a gap and crashed into a tree. He was finally out of the race.

McRae, who remained, never gave up on his "challenge for speed" until the very end, setting the fastest time on the final day.

He was able to demonstrate his ability.

Speed in the Moroccan desert, perseverance, teamwork and excitement from Mali to Burkina Faso. The second year of the Dakar has taught us many things. And it has fired up our enthusiasm for the next step. Nissan's challenge in the desert continues.

PIC CAPTIONS 2nd page

What did former WRC champion C. McRae think of the Dakar Rally? Despite struggling with problems, he quickly adapted to the machine and the environment, and finished in 20th place.

The team staff supported the intense race from behind the scenes. Including the support truck, more than 60 crew members assisted the driver with a perfect backup system.

The 2004 car has undergone significant evolution, including in terms of aerodynamics. Japan's NISMO also assisted in its development, and the car is equipped with a 3.5-liter V6 VQ35 engine, and its appearance racing through the sand dunes is truly that of a "desert GT car."

For the four-time champion desert hero, his seventh place finish last year was just the beginning. But just as he was coming off a record 50 Special Stage wins, this disappointing result came.

___________________________________________________

NISSAN DAKAR RALLY CHALLENGE

Japanese rookie entry record

● Yoshio Ikemachi

A patient drive leads to class victory

Born in 1971, he is 32 years old. In the 2000 motorcycle race, he achieved the highest ranking of any Japanese rider, finishing 10th overall. He made his first appearance in the T1 class with a Nissan Patrol (known as the Safari in Japan) and led the team to a splendid victory.

Rather than being happy about winning the class,

I felt like I had completed the race. The commercially available T1 class Patrol (known as the Safari in Japan) that I drove was durable but heavy, and the regulations required a small intake restrictor, so it was a tough situation. I had to endure throughout the race. Supporting the Nissan team's T2 machine, a higher class, was also an important part of my job, so I aimed to finish the race trouble-free and come third in the class. I could have actually driven faster, but I had to endure being overtaken and was patient even when there was a car a little slower than me in front of me.

But on a rest day, I was suddenly told, "I'm going to give you another task. Aim to win."

This was my first time in the Paris-Dakar Rally on a four-wheeled vehicle, and I learned that mental strength is more important with four-wheeled vehicles than with two-wheeled vehicles. I was taught a lot by an experienced navigator, and we started out as teacher and student relationships, but once we were able to communicate well, I was able to concentrate on driving.

To me, the navigator was like a reliable older brother.

Of course, my goal is not to be satisfied with winning the T1 class, but to compete in the T2 class and achieve good results. I want to participate in the actual race again as soon as possible and try to improve myself again.

I would like to test the power of the T2

Jun Mitsuhashi: I found possibilities in the midst of hardships

Born in 1970, he is 33 years old. With the experience of participating in the Dakar Rally for three consecutive years, he participated in his first four-wheeled vehicle race in a Nissan Pathfinder (known as the Terrano in Japan). Although he was confused by the difference with two-wheeled vehicles, he showed outstanding speed in every scene.

The two-wheeled race was held on an individual basis, but

The team is incomparably larger.

Especially the Dossudo Chi that I joined.

The team (France) was the largest team participating in the Rally-Dakar, so I really felt that. My impression of my first time participating in a four-wheeled vehicle was that I had to use my brain a lot while driving. My mind was always working at full speed while driving. Since I was always with the navigator in the car, it felt strange to say the least in the pre-drive tests. It may sound strange, but it felt like two people were in the same bathroom. But as I got used to it and our communication improved, I was able to look at the road in front of me and concentrate only on driving fast. In the end, the clutch wouldn't disengage before I crossed the sand dunes, and I couldn't change gears and had to retire. Since I didn't finish the race, this year's Rally-Dakar ended in an incomplete way for me. Still, I was able to drive as I had aimed and improve my position, and I also gained some benefits, such as being able to drive on an equal footing with the top group on the high-speed stages in Morocco.

I was able to test all of my strategies in real combat.

I wanted to make a move in the next marathon stage, but I flipped my car over and damaged the radiator, so I couldn't run as I wanted. My goal is to win the overall championship, so I want to practice with a fast T2 class car soon.

[lucy90712]

Insecure- Pablo Gavi

A/n: hey all this if my first Gavi fic if you have any requests for him or Pedri feel free to send them to me

Wc: 1600 There is no way to escape the news it's every Instagram, Twitter, the actual news and even texts from my friends. No one will let me forget about the fact that literal the princess of Spain has a crush on my boyfriend. I'm used to people having a crush on Gavi because I mean look at him but usually it's just random people not the princess of Spain. I have tried my hardest to not let it bother me as I know Pablo will think I'm being stupid but it's so hard when everyone is talking about how the two of them could end up dating and what that would mean for his football career and whatever else.

I had managed to sort my head out and convince myself that if Pablo didn't love me he would have broken up with me but when I woke up today to find out that the king had been to visit the squad and gotten Pablo to sign a shirt for his daughter all my worries came back. The more videos that came out the more insecure I felt as he had such a big smile on his face signing the shirt and taking a photo with the king. All of this isn't helped by the fact that he's in Qatar while I'm still back home in Barcelona as we don't get to talk as often because of the time difference and our schedules. Not getting much time to talk means I never bring up my worries as I don't want to waste the time we get to call on what is definitely me being stupid.

Despite all of this I'm still excited as I'm actually going out to Qatar to watch the next game which Pablo doesn't know about so I get to surprise him after the game. We haven't seen each other in ages as of course he's been at the World Cup and even before that we were both so busy we didn't get to see each other so it's probably been about a month since I've seen him in person. The only person that knows I'm coming is Pedri as I told him so that he could help me organise everything as I have no idea where the best place to stay is and I know you can't get tickets so last minute but he helped me with all of that. Having to hide my plans has been difficult as all I want to do is tell Pablo that I will be there especially when he says he wants me to see him play but I've stopped myself from telling him as I hope he'll like the surprise.

There was a a lot of delays on my flight as the plane was late to board so then we arrived into Qatar late and then it took ages to get my bags so my schedule has been thrown out the window as I need to drop my bags at the hotel and head straight to the stadium to make it for the start of the game. Of course there is a whole load of traffic but luckily once I made it to the hotel I could walk to the stadium so I grabbed my bag and sprinted to the stadium and just about made it before kickoff. There was no time to catch my breath as the match had started and it was already pretty tense as this game determines whether the team make it out of the group stages.

It was very tense the entire game as at times they were going out and others they were top of the group and then they were second. The guys were trying so hard to score another goal but Japan were playing really well and just not letting it happen. Pablo was subbed at 68 minutes which I could tell he wasn't too happy about but he still sat and watched the team for the rest of the game. The match ended 2-1 to Japan but the boys made it through 2nd in the group which means they will be facing Morocco in the next round which I think will be a hard game as they have been playing incredibly well but I know they will put up a fight.

After the match finished I left my seat and went with all the other family of the players to go and meet them outside the changing room. Up until I was stood waiting to see Pablo I was excited but standing there I got nervous because what if he doesn't want to see me? What if he has thought about our relationship while we've been apart and thinks he'd be better off with someone like the princess. So many thoughts were swirling around my brain that I didn't even notice Pedri come out and walk over to me until he tapped my shoulder which got my attention.

"Hey are you ok?" He asked

"Yeah I'm fine just nervous" I replied

"Ok well he'll be out in a minute I'll see you both later" he said giving me a hug and then walked away

Once again I was on my own just waiting which made all the thoughts come right  even though it was just a few minutes I got myself so worried that my hands were all sweaty but also shaking with nerves. This time I was paying attention so when Pablo came out the door I locked eyes with him and tried my best to give him a smile. He came over right away and gave me a quick hug before linking our hands together and dragging me out of the stadium. I thought seeing him would make me feel less insecure but after that reaction I honestly feel worse. To me it just seemed like he didn't want me to be there and he didn't want anyone to see me there as normally after a game we will stand together for a bit before we leave but this time he just dragged me straight out. It also hurt as when he came out the dressing room he was smiling but when he saw me his smile seemed to disappear which almost made me cry but I held it together just about.

We made it back to the hotel and went up to the room together where I hoped he might actually seem excited to see me but no he just sat on the bed and went on his phone. I crawled on the bed next to him and rested my head on his shoulder to see that he was on Instagram looking at edits people had made of him and the princess together. That was the last straw for me and the tears started to fall rapidly down my face so I got up and shut myself in the bathroom where I just let all my pent up emotion go until I was sobbing. I tried to my best to be quiet but Pablo must have heard me as I heard him knock on the bathroom door before it opened as I didn't lock it. As soon as we looked at each other he came and sat on the floor next to me and pulled me into his lap. He tried to wipe the tears from my face but they just kept falling so he tried gently rubbing my back to calm me down.

"What's wrong mi amor?" He asked

"Do you still love me?" I asked back instead of answering

"Of course I do so much what makes you think I don't?" He questioned

"Well you didn't seem too happy to see me back at the stadium and when we got here you were looking at edits of you and the princess if you would rather be with her I'd understand but just tell me now" I said

"Oh sweetheart I'm sorry I didn't meant to give you the wrong impression I don't want to be with anyone other than you I promise" he said

"Then why did you act like you wished I wasn't here?" I asked

"I didn't mean to love I'm sorry I was just upset about the match and I wasn't expecting to see you I should have acted differently so I'm sorry but I'm very happy you're here" he said

We talked things through a bit more and he made me feel a lot better about my insecurity without making me feel stupid which I was worried about. Communication is all we needed but it was the one thing we weren't doing so when we actually talked about everything going on in our heads it made everything so much better. I promised to tell him when if I was feeling insecure and he promised to not let games interfere with our relationship which I think will help us in the future.

He said he wanted to make it up to me so he picked me up and carried me to the bed where he attacked me with kisses all over my face until I was laughing and smiling. When he'd cheered me up he turned the tv on and we watched a film together while cuddling. We also ordered room service most of which I ate as Pablo has a diet he is supposed to follow but I did make him eat a few things and promised not to tell anyone. We stayed up longer than we probably should of but eventually we fell asleep cuddling and much happier than we were a few hours ago.

[likeniobe]

ulysses tells dante and virgil of his final voyage in inferno, canto xxvi, 85-142, trans. allen mandelbaum

The greater horn within that ancient flame began to sway and tremble, murmuring just like a fire that struggles in the wind; and then he waved his flame-tip back and forth as if it were a tongue that tried to speak, and flung toward us a voice that answered: "When I sailed away from Circe, who'd beguiled me to stay more than a year there, near Gaeta–– before Aeneas gave that place a name–– neither my fondness for my son nor pity for my old father nor the love I owed Penelope, which would have gladdened her, was able to defeat in me the longing I had to gain experience of the world and of the vices and the worth of men. Therefore, I set out on the open sea with but one ship and that small company of those who never had deserted me. I saw as far as Spain, far as Morocco, along both shores; I saw Sardinia and saw the other islands that sea bathes. And I and my companions were already old and slow, when we approached the narrows where Hercules set up his boundary stones that men might heed and never reach beyond: upon my right, I had gone past Seville, and on the left, already passed Ceüta. 'Brothers,' I said, 'o you, who having crossed a hundred thousand dangers, reach the west, to this brief waking-time that still is left unto your senses, you must not deny experience of that which lies beyond the sun, and of the world that is unpeopled. Consider well the seed that gave you birth: you were not made to live your lives as brutes, but to be followers of worth and knowledge.' I spurred my comrades with this brief address to meet the journey with such eagerness that I could hardly, then, have held them back; and having turned our stern toward morning, we made wings out of our oars in wild flight and always gained upon our left-hand side. At night I now could see the other pole and all its stars; the star of ours had fallen and never rose above the plain of the ocean. Five times the light beneath the moon had been rekindled, and, as many times, was spent, since that hard passage faced our first attempt, when there before us rose a mountain, dark because of distance, and it seemed to me the highest mountain I had ever seen. And we were glad, but this soon turned to sorrow, for out of that new land a whirlwind rose and hammered at our ship, against her bow. Three times it turned her round with all the waters; and at the fourth, it lifted up the stern so that our prow plunged deep, as pleased an Other, until the sea again closed––over us."

[writingfish]

A snippet about Dream having a breakdown upon seeing a pregnant Lyta with her ghost husband.

The final straw is the child and the ghost. Pain echoed throughout the Dreaming, in the form of cracks on the ground, screams on the wind, space blinking in and out of reality.

I don't have any choices do I? A quiet thought growing in the ocean. The dreamers tugged at him. A cat dreamt of ruling the world. A caged bird of flight. A child of swimming in ice cream. He sank into it, let them pull him along into their dreams, safe dreams.

Cold glass against his skin. A mouth open with no voice. A collared circle.

Sharp pain bloomed n the meat of his palm. Space snapped back into place.

"Boss?" Matthew sounded uncertain, but then again Matthew always had a note of uncertainty in his voice. He was still new to the job.

He focused on the floor, concrete not stone. He was sitting down, curled up like he had been before. He was clothed. There was a ghost and a child in front of him. Space nearly slid away again.

"Breathe boss" Matthew's weight settled on his shoulder, heavy enough to be grounding.

He took in a breath, let it out again. The Dreaming was still quaking. He continued breathing. Slowly, the quakes stopped.

"Boss?" Matthew tugged on his hair. "You wanna say something?"

He very much did not want to talk, but the ghost and the child were still there. Another problem added to the pile.

He focused on the ghost.

You are dead.

The ghost shook his head. "No, I'm not, I'm here."

He dipped into the ocean, searched for a name.

A woman dreamt of a crash, of smoke, and of a name.

Hector Hall died in a car crash several months ago.

"But I'm here."

Yes. You are a ghost. You do not belong here

The woman clutched the ghost's arm. The floor wavered.

"What does that mean?"

A man in Morocco dreamt of spice. A dolphin of swimming in the current with their pod. A demon of invading Heaven. He felt scattered, scraped thin at the edges. The corpse of his body was still knitting together, constantly being torn apart by the vortex. The ground quaked. Space blinked in and out of existence.

"Boss" Matthew said uneasily. "You're doing it again."

There was fear here, fear in all of them.

Everyone is always afraid of me.

Lucienne had been too, in the beginning. There had been fear in Johanna Constantine's eyes, even if she covered it up with bluster. Hob, his friend, had been too, before. He didn't like it. It cut and somewhere in the Dreaming, a chasm opened.

He turned to look at Rose Walker. Brave, kind, willing to listen. He didn't want to kill her. He had no choice.

I don't have any choices, he said to the floor. It turned darker in front of him. Rose Walker looked alarmed, terrified even.

"Lord Morpheus?"

He had to help her find her brother. He promised.

He got to his feet. Everything lurched and he found himself on the ground again, panting.

"Will someone explain what the hell is going on?" A screechy voice full of terror rang in his ears.

"My lord," Lucienne said. "If I may?"

When had she gotten here? He nodded or at least he thought he nodded. His head felt heavy. He wanted to lie down. Lucienne was speaking, voice calm. He focused on it. There was a weight on his shoulder, a quiet voice urging him to lie down. For once in his life, he listened.

[stolendiamonds]

Run With the Hunted 7: The Casino Job, coming October 31, 2024!

"In the fast-paced, tech-heavy future, the City of Light is everything Bristol always knew it could be. But when she brings a new job to the table, stealing diamond-crusted endangered animal statues from an art installation at a casino, to her shock, Bits says no. Not without Dolly. Dolly, who Bristol hasn’t seen or spoken to since that night in Morocco.

Well, no matter. She hops on a flight to find Dolly and plead her case. It isn’t really a casino job after all; it can’t possibly be that serious, no matter Bit’s misgivings. They’ve handled a lot in their time together.

But her reception isn’t exactly warm, and while Dolly agrees to do the job for Bristol’s own good, it doesn’t feel as victorious as she expected. Bristol finds herself doing some uncomfortable soul-searching as the trio coordinates one of their biggest jobs ever."

[mywisdomexchange]

Ride the Wave: A Global Guide to Surfing Paradises

Whether you're a seasoned pro or a curious beginner, the allure of riding the ocean's waves is undeniable. From towering barrels to gentle rollers, there's a perfect wave out there waiting for everyone. To help you plan your next surf adventure, we've compiled a list of some of the world's most iconic and lesser-known surfing destinations.

North America

Hawaii: As the birthplace of modern surfing, Hawaii offers a diverse range of surf spots for all skill levels. From the legendary waves of Oahu to the pristine beaches of Maui, Hawaii is a surfer's paradise.

California: With its iconic surf culture, California boasts numerous world-class surf spots. From the classic waves of Huntington Beach to the rugged coastline of Big Sur, there's something for everyone.

Costa Rica: This Central American gem offers a mix of tropical rainforests, volcanic landscapes, and stunning beaches. Costa Rica is home to several surf breaks, including Playa Tamarindo and Playa Nosara.

Mexico: With its long coastline and diverse surf conditions, Mexico is a popular destination for surfers. Puerto Escondido, Sayulita, and Tulum are just a few of the many surf spots to explore.

South America

Peru: Peru's Pacific coast offers a variety of surf breaks, from beginner-friendly waves to challenging barrels. Popular surf spots include Mancora, Chicama, and Punta Rocas.

Brazil: Brazil is known for its beautiful beaches and vibrant surf culture. Rio de Janeiro, Florianópolis, and Jericoacoara are all popular surfing destinations.

Ecuador: Ecuador's coastline offers a mix of tropical rainforests, volcanic landscapes, and stunning beaches. Popular surf spots include Montañita, San Clemente, and Canoa.

Europe

Portugal: Portugal has emerged as a popular surfing destination in recent years. Ericeira, Peniche, and Nazaré are all known for their world-class waves.

France: France's Atlantic coast offers a variety of surf spots, from beginner-friendly waves to challenging barrels. Hossegor, Biarritz, and Anglet are popular surfing destinations.

Spain: Spain's coastline offers a variety of surf spots, from beginner-friendly waves to challenging barrels. Cantabria, Asturias, and Galicia are popular surfing regions.

Africa

South Africa: South Africa's coastline offers a variety of surf spots, from beginner-friendly waves to challenging barrels. Jeffrey's Bay, Cape Town, and Durban are popular surfing destinations.

Morocco: Morocco's Atlantic coast offers a variety of surf spots, from beginner-friendly waves to challenging barrels. Taghazout, Essaouira, and Imouzzer des Idaougan are popular surfing destinations.

Asia

Indonesia: Indonesia is a surfer's paradise with countless islands and surf breaks. Bali, Lombok, and Sumatra are all popular surfing destinations.

Philippines: The Philippines offer a variety of surf spots, from beginner-friendly waves to challenging barrels. Siargao, San Juan, and Baler are popular surfing destinations.

Sri Lanka: Sri Lanka's southern coast offers a variety of surf spots, from beginner-friendly waves to challenging barrels. Arugam Bay, Mirissa, and Weligama are popular surfing destinations.

Australia

Gold Coast: The Gold Coast is one of Australia's most popular surfing destinations, with numerous world-class breaks. Snapper Rocks, Kirra, and Burleigh Heads are all iconic surf spots.

Western Australia: Western Australia offers a variety of surf spots, from beginner-friendly waves to challenging barrels. Margaret River, Rottnest Island, and Trigg Beach are popular surfing destinations.

Tasmania: Tasmania's rugged coastline offers a variety of surf spots, from beginner-friendly waves to challenging barrels. Hobart, Strahan, and Bicheno are popular surfing destinations.

Oceania

New Zealand: New Zealand's coastline offers a variety of surf spots, from beginner-friendly waves to challenging barrels. Raglan, Piha, and Mount Maunganui are popular surfing destinations.

Fiji: Fiji is known for its crystal-clear waters and world-class surf breaks. Cloudbreak, Teahupoo, and Tavarua are iconic surf spots.

Tips for Your Next Surf Adventure

Research your destination: Learn about the local surf conditions, etiquette, and culture.

Choose the right time to visit: Consider the peak surfing season and weather patterns.

Pack appropriately: Bring your essential surfing gear, including a wetsuit, board, and leash.

Be mindful of the environment: Respect the local marine life and avoid polluting the beaches.

Consider a surf camp: Surf camps offer a great way to learn from experienced surfers and meet other travelers.

Have fun! Surfing is a great way to relax, connect with nature, and challenge yourself.

Remember, the best surfing destination for you will depend on your skill level, preferences, and budget. With so many incredible places to choose from, there's no shortage of opportunities to ride the waves and experience the thrill of surfing.

[darkmaga-retard]

The US “Special Relationship” with Israel: Abject Enslavement

By Kevin Barrett, for AFP

I recently returned to the USA after a year-long absence, having taken up residence in exotic Morocco last July. Unfortunately I had a tight connection at LAX, which became even tighter when US Customs and Border Protection singled me out for interrogation. It seems that interesting stuff always pops up on government screens when they enter my name. How else would they know that I am a writer known for questioning the official story of 9/11? “So who did it?” the agent asked. “Israel,” I answered without hesitation.

A split second later, I was cursing myself for my impulsive honesty, brought on by sleeplessness and jet lag: “If that CPB agent is a Zionist, they’ll hold me for hours and I’ll never make my connection!”

Fortunately the agent took no offense and released me just in time to catch my flight. Apparently America isn’t a complete Zionist-occupied totalitarian hellhole yet.

But we’re getting there. A sign of the times was Israeli PM Netanyahu’s speech to Congress July 24. The good news is that 92 lawmakers boycotted the genocidal war criminal’s speech. The bad news is that the other 443 senators and representatives offered repeated standing ovations.

[averagejoesolomon]

WELCOME TO THE KIDS. God, we are not ready for this installment, I'm so serious. Matt and Rachel are going to kill us all. To say nothing of the upcoming spycraft and general ass-kickery. Thank you for reading this with me. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle in full on Ao3. Enjoy!

Chapter Two

Before Matt boards a plane to New York, he pastes an OTS-issued mustache to his upper lip and switches the passports in his backpack.

There are no direct flights from Washington DC to Moscow. The reasons for this span far and wide, but the most significant factor also happens to be the simplest—sheer distance. At nearly five-thousand miles as the crow flies, there ain’t a whole lot of civilian aircraft that can make the flight in one go, to say nothing of the fact that neither country is especially amicable to the idea of direct contact. As part of a global effort to reduce the friction between two nuclear superpowers, Morocco offers up its services as the geographical and political buffer between the two destinations, its liminal and atmospheric nightlife acting as the ideal backdrop for the world’s transfers, layovers, and delays.

The trip usually takes eighteen hours if flown straight through, but the gin joints can eat into a full day if given the chance. For his part, Matt’s latest trip takes thirty-seven hours.

But he can’t blame the bars this time around because he doesn’t stop in Morocco, and hasn’t since he picked up a Soviet tail in the CMN terminal last spring. For every US intelligence agent flying through Casablanca, there are five Russian officers waiting on the ground with direct orders to identify and apprehend incoming westerners. The behavior has become too predictable. The Soviets have become too prominent. As Joe puts it: an agent in Morocco is an agent in the grave.

So Matt begins with a trip to New York, then London, then Istanbul, where he switches passports again to fly to Dubai, so he can finally make his way up to Moscow. He survives off of complimentary peanuts and ginger ale, stopping only at the occasional newsstand for the latest local headlines and a fresh packet of M&Ms—one of the few candies sold consistently across international borders. Vigilant airport hours are balanced with the relative safety of the sky, and his only sleep happens alongside the low, rattling drone of jet engines in his ear.

By the time he lands in the Soviet Union, he’s already added a goatee and traded his honey blond hair for a bleached wig that more closely resembles his newly assumed Slavic heritage. After deboarding, he identifies the nearest bathroom to the gate and enters the last stall on the left. As instructed by his CO, he runs his fingers along the wall until he finds a ridge in the tile. He carefully peels back a damn near invisible panel, revealing the compartment Langley promised him. There’s a change of clothes. A pair of contacts. A note written on evapopaper: E ibvltn aely ldrm oor we uti I. The key to this particular skip code was already given to him in New York, which helps him decipher the message that a driver will meet him in Lot 2. Thank God he doesn’t need to hail a taxi.

He drops the note into the toilet bowl and watches it melt from the edges inward. After changing into the provided outfit, he silently shreds his old travel clothes to be discarded in various trash cans on his way to the parking lot. Finally, he pops both contacts in, replaces the panel, and flushes the toilet in case anyone is listening. When he approaches the sink to wash his hands, unfamiliar blue eyes blink back at him from where his own brown eyes ought to be.

Between the sporadic sleep and the changing time zones, he has no idea what the local time is, but the dark sky narrows his possibilities to either very late or very early. The weight of travel saturates every muscle, every joint, every step, but he can’t afford to turn off his senses and slip lazily into the night—not in Moscow. Never in Moscow. After five consecutive flights in less than two days, the hard part has only just begun.

The Soviet Union has always been dangerous to western agents, but the capital has only gotten more hostile in Matt’s time as an operative. Last summer alone, ten US informants were executed in the city, including two of Matt’s most reliable contacts. In the following winter, a handful of Russian specialists left Langley for a field mission and didn’t come home. The last time Matt was here, he met with a Circle informant named Omar who offered to talk in exchange for medication not available in Russia, but easily acquired at a US pharmacy with a forged prescription. Omar is dead now, too, and Matt suspects an assassin finished him off before the illness did. These days, Moscow is a loaded spring trap ready to snap at the slightest tick in the wrong direction, deadly enough that even a skilled Pavement Artist stands to don a disguise or two.

Despite the ocean between them, Joe’s voice rings through Matt’s head. It’s always strongest in Moscow, imploring him to pay attention. Notice things. This is the sort of place where it’s best to lean into strengths, so Matt jumps in with the rest of the red-eyed passengers as the mob progresses through customs, down to baggage claim, and toward ground transportation. From his pace to his posture, he strives to put on a seamless Soviet appearance.

When he reaches the lot, he identifies a license plate number he was instructed to memorize, then enters the backseat of the boxy beige Lada. The driver doesn’t look back when he says, “Nice weather we’re having, yes?” in the sort of thick, Russian dialect that only natives can pull off.

Matt replies in his own practiced Russian. “I hear rain is imminent,” he says. “But I seem to have forgotten my umbrella at home.”

Satisfied with the exchange, the driver shifts gears and squeezes out of his parking spot, working his way toward the main city. By now, Matt knows the streets of Moscow as well as he knows the streets of Hay Springs, so he pays close attention to the route, just in case the driver has been compromised in the past forty-eight hours. The two of them do not speak, wary of bugs. They do not exchange glances, wary of pinprick cameras sewn into buttons. Instead, they embrace their existence as total strangers, not eager to leave any impression of an alliance.

This suits Matt just fine. That is, until seventeen minutes later, when the driver takes a right-hand turn away from the city center, then another.

In this business, in this part of the world, two right turns are a surefire signal to any veteran agent that something significant is about to happen, though it’s impossible to predict whether he’s looking at a positive or negative outcome until the moment actually passes. That’s probably why Joe’s voice is in Matt’s head again, anticipating the worst and providing Matt with escape plans. 

The sidewalks look reasonably empty, easy enough to run.

The rear doors appear to be unlocked from the inside. 

If the doors are jammed shut from the outside, Matt’s shoe has an iron wedge embedded in the rubber heel, which will help him kick through the window.

The driver isn’t armed, but if he makes a move for the glove box, Matt’s best option is to choke him from behind.

The little Lada pulls up to an alleyway tucked between high-rise apartments and a seemingly abandoned liquor store. There are no streetlights. No witnesses. The driver shifts the car into park and says, “You exit now.”

Risk assessment is a key component of any covert decision and, in that moment, Matt senses some serious risk waiting for him at the other end of that alleyway. At the same time, he also senses an even greater risk if he overstays his welcome with this native Russian driver who, by the way, has about a hundred extra pounds on him. Matt doesn’t need to be told twice. Hands up, he slowly exits the vehicle and prepares himself for the next piece of this rapidly evolving Moscow puzzle.

The instant Matt kicks the door shut and slings his bag back onto his shoulder, the Lada’s engine grinds into full gear with a squeal of the tires. He has officially run out of CIA instructions, but the good news is that he doesn’t have any time to doubt himself before his next priority makes itself apparent. The bad news is that his next priority should probably be to get away from the knife that was just pressed against his side.

The pointed end of the blade pokes along the muscle just above his hip. It hasn’t cut through his shirt yet, but one wrong move could change that and much more. “This is a nice surprise,” Matt says, sticking with Russian in a rushed attempt to keep his cover intact. “Where are we going?”

The answering Russian is good—excellent, even—but it has the subtle lilt of someone who learned it as a secondary language. “Is that all it takes to best you? One knife to the ribs and you roll over completely?” It’s a woman’s voice, and one of the few commonalities between the CIA and the KGB is the rarity of female agents among their ranks. Plus, the hold on the knife is petite and graceful, belonging to someone who was taught to fence before she was taught to fight. Matt decides he’s not up against a Soviet agent, but this ain’t a friend either. Not yet.

Joe’s voice is telling him to fight, but Matt’s curious enough to say, “In my experience, the person with the knife usually gets to make all the rules.” He continues with Russian, hoping that the woman will respond in kind and give him a chance to identify the accent layered below. “And, by the way, if you’re aiming for my ribs, you’re about two inches too low.”

She doesn’t disappoint. British accent, maybe. Or Australian. It really is impressively subtle. “Bold thing to say to someone with a knife to your side,” she says. “Remarks like that could get you killed.”

Matt huffs. “Maybe one day, but not today.”

She twists the knife a little deeper, pricking a hole in his shirt. “And what makes you so certain?”

“Because if you were going to kill me, ma’am,” he says, “I’d already be dead.”

This is a bit of a risky gamble. Few things make one human want to kill another more than spite, and Matt’s gone ahead and welcomed it with open arms. His mama always did say he had a real way about him, when it came to tempting fate. Thankfully, this particular bet seems to pay off as the knife finally falls away from his torso. The woman grabs him by the back of his collar instead, pulling him deeper into the alleyway. “You’ve taken all the fun out of it,” she says with a sigh. “Come with me. And don’t ever call me ma’am—that much will get you killed.”

This is a joke. He thinks. And jokes are awfully promising in a place like Moscow. 

At the end of the alleyway, another car sits idling. No headlights. No plate lights. Matt can’t know for sure, but he reckons the brake lights are probably cut, too. In the presence of a car designed for a perfect covert getaway, Matt recognizes this moment for what it is—not an attack, but an escape. A high-tech game of keepaway.

In this particular instance, Matt is not an agent. Rather, he’s an asset in need of transportation, and he’s just met his new driver. When this stranger opens the rear door and shoves him inside, Matt knows that she’s putting on a show for potential onlookers. When she says, “Stay down,” he understands that his silhouette can’t be seen driving through the city. It is not enough to blend in—not when he could have a tail leftover from travel, not when the customs office could have bugged his backpack, not when a patrolman might recognize him from another visit into the city and assign a car to follow close behind. Agents have been known to disappear between an airport and a safe house, which means Matt is only safe if he becomes completely invisible. It’s the sort of thing that can only be accomplished with careful timing, meticulous planning, and an appreciation for redundancy, after redundancy, after redundancy.

In other words, this plan has Rachel Cameron written all over it.

He’s managed to avoid the thought for the past thirty-seven hours—and, frankly, for the entire two years before that—but the idea of being in the same city as Rachel after such a long time away has him wishing for a knife to his side instead. Knife wounds, at least, are an isolated pain with one clear source. They can be cleaned and stitched up. Bandaged and healed. This business with Rachel pings around all of his insides, taking turns with his stomach, his heart, his throat, his lungs. Rancid regret rots his brain and radiates down to every last muscle. Laying alone in the back of a stranger’s car, staring up at the velvet interior, Matt gets caught in a loop of all the things he wishes he’d said sooner.

He didn’t expect it to all stop.

He never should have made her cry.

He didn’t think it would last this long.

He lies, sometimes. He’s sorry he has to lie.

He’s doing good, good, good as often as he can.

Matt has always meant to say these things to her, but the longer they went without, the harder it got to call. Now it feels like too much time has passed to say any of it—like apologizing will only serve as a bitter reminder of just how deeply they tore into one another. Like acknowledging it will only reopen scars that have only just started to heal over.

The longer they drive, the more Rachel’s proximity presses down on his chest, squeezing him into the seat. He knows he ought to count the seconds. Track the turns. Try to get some sense of where they’re headed. But Rachel Cameron fills every last available space in his thoughts and, God almighty, she would lecture him straight to high heaven if she knew how distracted he was.

Once he’s fully worked himself up into a tightly wound ball of unspoken mistakes, the tires hit a gravel drive. The car takes an awfully long route over bumpy back roads and heavily forested hills, which is especially impressive given the lack of headlights, before it finally slows to a stop. His driver turns to the backseat, moonlight catching on the curve of her cheek, an icy white steak against smooth dark skin. “Congratulations on surviving your trip,” she says, and Matt thinks it might be an American southern drawl hiding beneath her Russian, with the way her vowels drawl. “You may leave. Your bag, however, must stay until morning.”

Matt sits upright, his silhouette visible to the night once more. “Sure thing,” he answers. “It’s like I said—the lady with the knife gets to make the rules.”

This earns him a subtle tick of the stranger’s lips. Matt latches onto the near smile and vows to turn into a broad, toothy grin sooner rather than later. But in the meantime, he’ll settle for the semi-charmed side-eye she casts his way, just before she opens the driver door. “Bloody Hell,” she says as she exits, finally switching to English. “She was right about you.”

British. Damn. Matt should have trusted his gut.

Wait. 

He bolts out of the backseat and jogs to catch up. “Right about me?” he echoes, falling back into his own American English. “Who was right about me—right about what?”

The Brit’s stride is incredibly long, and would probably be better suited to a runway than barely-used backwoods paths overgrown with weeds. Matt has to quicken his own pace just to keep up with her. “Never you mind,” she says. “This way.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” he tries, “that you get inside info on me when I don’t even know your name—”

“This way,” she says again. “Surely I don’t have to remind you, of all people, that Moscow’s trees have ears.”

Matt has spent a significant portion of his career listening to conversations picked up by precisely placed bugs exactly like the ones she speaks of now. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her the surrounding trees probably aren’t bugged—at least not in the way she expects. The Soviets wouldn’t go to the trouble of tagging each individual tree, only to have an opposing agent uncover them within an hour of arrival. The birds, foxes, and deer, however, are worth a second glance. 

Either way, she’s right. The forest is no place for introductions. Instead, he follows as she hikes toward a tiny cabin tucked between one hillside and another. It appears perfectly plain on the outside, built from cedar logs and a tin roof. Shrubs and pines surround the perimeter, and Matt knows from experience that these are probably prickly and unpleasant, making it difficult for any unwelcome guests to get too close. The curtains are drawn. The chimney is without smoke. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say no one was home. 

They cover their tracks as they go, wordless right up until they reach the door. Mind split in the dozens of different directions demanded by good countersurveillance, Matt forgets to be nervous until the last minute, when the Brit knocks in a unique, four-rap pattern, then opens the door. The cabin’s light flashes into the nighttime forest, so they waste no time stepping inside. 

A new voice greets them. Then again, this voice ain’t really new. Not to him. He’d know this particular voice anywhere, even if he spent years, decades, centuries away. “Grace?”

Rachel Cameron waits for them just inside, seated at a small dining table at the center of a small kitchen. Rachel Cameron has lists, and blueprints, and notes scattered all across the tabletop, the chairs, the linoleum, splayed across kitchen countertops, and taped to cabinets, and stuck to the refrigerator with little black magnets. Rachel Cameron scans one stack of papers with the pencil in her right hand, then another with a highlighter in her left. Rachel Cameron looks up. Rachel Cameron meets his gaze. Rachel Cameron sighs.

Genius. He’s always known the word applied to her, though it strikes him anew. Rachel’s brilliance is better experienced in small doses, when he can slowly acclimate himself to the raw appreciation of it. The last two years have robbed him of his resilience and it’s like he’s seeing her for the very first time all over again.

Except it only takes a single moment for all of their history to come rushing back, filling the room from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, until there’s no more space for words, or gestures, or glances. Rachel looks away first, eyes falling back to a set of blueprints, and Matt follows her lead.

Thankfully, their companion cuts through the silence without a trace of discomfort. “Found your boy,” she says, kicking off her shoes. “He’s cheeky, this one.”

Matt starts to protest with “Oh, I ain’t—” at the same time Rachel says, “He’s not my—”

They both stop, and wait, and wait some more. Neither of them meet the other’s eyes. When enough excruciating seconds have passed, Rachel starts again, and Matt lets her. “Thank you for picking him up,” she says. “I know you were eager to stay in tonight, but—”

“But we aren’t taking any chances with this op,” the Brit finishes. “Understood. Really, Rachel. Though I will say, I was a bit surprised at how easily this one came along with a complete stranger.”

It is as if all of Rachel’s years of etiquette training hit her at once. She brings her fingers to her forehead, suddenly remembering. “Ah, yes, sorry. You haven’t been introduced yet.”

“Not unless you count my putting a knife into his side,” she says.

Matt clears his throat, finally finding his words. “In this business, that’s sometimes the only introduction we get.”

The Brit smiles again. It’s still not the full grin he’s looking for, but it’s closer. “Quite right.”

Rachel studies the pair of them, analyzing something Matt can’t see. She squints back and forth between them, her face twisting into something sour, as though she’s not sure she likes what she’s looking at. “Right,” she says, slowly. Then, clears her throat. “Right, well, anyway. Grace, this is Matthew Morgan. Matthew, this is Grace Harris—”

“Baxter,” Grace cuts in.

“Right,” says Rachel, squeezing her eyes shut, remembering again. Matt’s not sure he’s ever seen Rachel forget anything, and he takes note of the fact that she’s gone and forgotten twice in a sixty-second span. A data point he’ll save for later. “Grace Baxter.”

Grace Baxter holds out her hand to shake, meeting Matt with a far firmer grip than he’s expecting. He feels a couple of knuckles pop in his own hand, and resists the urge to call out. “It’s so great to finally meet you,” she says. 

That’s an awfully interesting choice of words. “Finally?” says Matt.

Grace does not elaborate. “My husband is around as well, but he’s being a good little agent and sleeping off his jet lag while it’s still dark.”

Matt, who hasn’t had more than two hours of consecutive sleep since DC, can’t quite hide the longing in his reply. “Smart man.”

“Outrageously so. It’s infuriating, really,” Grace agrees. “You’ll see him at breakfast tomorrow, but in the meantime we should all probably join him. The last thing we need is four exhausted agents trying to run an op in Moscow.”

Matt has about a million more questions for Grace Baxter, but none of them form quite right in his head. A fog fills his brain, clouding all of his better thoughts, and he reckons Grace is probably right. He’s useless to Rachel like this, and she’ll be the first to call him on it. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he says. “Do you think we ought to run it by the boss, first?”

Grace risks a glance toward Rachel, who has already returned to one of her blueprints. With Rachel’s attention occupied, Matt steals this chance to take her in. Her clothes are worn with travel and her shoulders slump with a need for sleep. Some of her curls have escaped the denim scrunchie holding back the bulk of her hair, falling into her face, and Matt remembers all at once that Rachel never did know how to stop, once she got started.

“Good luck,” Grace scoffs. “I’ve been trying to get her to sleep for hours. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. She’s been planning since the moment she walked in.”

Matt ain’t got any sense that Rachel doesn’t already have ten times over, and he doesn’t dare pretend otherwise. Thankfully, Rachel recognizes this and provides an answer of her own. “I’ve been planning for the past three months,” she corrects, just as she circles something on the page. “I just wanted to get some last-minute changes down before bed.”

Grace turns back to Matt. “You see? Hopeless,” she says. “You two may do what you please, but I intend to get some sleep. Pulling off a fake kidnapping at the edge of Moscow is exhausting work, you know.”

With this, she sends a playful jab into Matt’s side. Only problem is, Grace’s idea of a playful jab is most people’s idea of a full-on elbow to the ribs, and Matt has to catch his breath afterward. It takes all of his might not to let out an unmanly yelp in front of these two women. “Right,” he gasps. “See you in the morning.”

“Thanks again, Grace,” Rachel calls, not looking up from her writing.

With a wave of her fingers, Grace disappears behind one of the two available doors and shuts it with a twist of the lock. Matt realizes too late that her absence leaves just him and Rachel. Alone. Together.

This silence just won’t do.

“Flights good?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers, scribbling away.

“Abby okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Yes.”

“You okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason.” This is worse than the silence, actually. Out of questions and energy stores depleted, Matt decides that his only remaining move is one that has been employed by desperate agents for centuries—a retreat. “Listen, I think I might join the others and try to get some sleep. Unless you need me?”

Scribble, scribble. “Not yet.”

“Great,” he says. “Just point me to my bed and I’ll be on my way.”

Rachel’s pencil freezes mid-sentence. This is Matt’s first clue that something is horribly wrong, followed by the fact that her eyes finally meet his and this time, she doesn’t look away. “No.”

“Um.” Retreat, retreat, retreat. “Okay? I guess I can find it—”

But Rachel is already up, dashing through the sliver of a living room that hosts a single chair, a coffee table, and a throw blanket. When she reaches the second available door in the cabin, blood drains from her already pale face, turning it to an alarming, ashen white. Her voice is hollow and distant when she squeaks out a soft, “No, no, no.”

When it comes to Rachel, Matt is woefully out of practice, but it doesn’t take an expert to see the panic, and Rachel’s panic ain’t built the same way everyone else’s is. The sight of Rachel out of sorts is enough to get Matt’s heart really, truly racing. “Rachel, what are you—?”

She flicks on the light, and when Matt steps up behind her, he’s met with an instant understanding of the situation. “There’s only one other bed,” she says, spinning to face him as she explains. “Abby and I usually share. I booked the safe house when it was going to be the two of us, but between the hospital, and the flights, and coordinating our assets…” Sometimes Matt wonders how loud the inside of her head must be. He suspects she doesn’t realize when her words dissolve between inner and outer monologue. It takes some deciphering to understand her complete thoughts from start to finish. “I forgot. I’m so sorry, I forgot to account for the beds when I switched agents, I’ll take the couch.”

By couch, he supposes she means the ancient loveseat tucked away at the end of the bed. The leather cushions are scratched and cracked, and the silver shine of a spring peeks out from beneath the quilt laid across its back. A grease stain rests along the arm where agents have laid their heads for years and years before. Throughout his travels, Matt has seen more than his fair share of uncomfortable furniture and this one has serious potential to rank among the worst, but this is Rachel’s third strike at forgetfulness when she’s usually a home run hitter. She needs to sleep, and sleep well, and it simply won’t do, for her to sleep on that old thing. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No it’s my mistake, I should—”

“Rachel,” he says, and his hands fall to her shoulders out of habit. Out of familiarity. “I’m sorry, but there just ain’t no way I’m letting you take the couch.” She’s looking up at him with big, brown eyes. They’re glassy, and tired, and he spares Rachel her dignity by ignoring the twinge of tears sneaking into either corner. “She may be all the way in Nebraska now, but there’s no quicker way to get Joy Morgan to Moscow than if I let you sleep on that couch.”

She shakes her head. “Matthew—”

“I’m telling you,” he tries again. “My mama can sense that sorta thing, and believe me when I say she’ll shake down the entire agency to find this cabin and knock me six ways from Sunday, right upside my head.”

“You’re worried that your mother will intimidate CIA agents into disclosing the location of one of their most heavily protected safe houses?”

“You’ve never seen my mama when there’s a matter of chivalry at stake.”

“Matthew, I—” she interrupts herself, this time, freezing when she meets his gaze. “Your eyes,” she says, studying the intimate features of his face. “Your eyes are blue.”

This is outright nonsense, and even more proof that she needs to sleep. That is, until he remembers the light blue contacts. He blinks, as though he might be able to get rid of the color, because everything artificial seems so ridiculous now that he’s in the presence of someone who knows him to his core. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sorry.”

With that, she studies him more deeply, and he notices the faint lines that have started to form where her eyebrows always furrow, the freckles she’s accumulated along her cheekbones with years of missions spent in the sun, the ease with which her lips fall into a tight, even line. Her eyes bounce between each of his, debating her next words before she finally says, “Why are you apologizing?”

Matt’s breath catches, and he knows this is it. The opening he’s been waiting for. But it’s late, and they’re tired, and they both smell like planes, and airports, and taxis. So despite the desperate words trying to crawl from his heart to his mouth, he settles on something softer. “I think we both know I’ve got plenty to apologize for,” he says, finally letting his hands fall. “But I think we both know this ain’t the time to do it.”

Genius. She’s always been smarter than him in more ways than he can count, and this moment is no exception. She’s smart enough to know that they both need clearer heads. That they both need a moment of quiet. That morning will come and they’ll both be better for it, and that tonight is no place for their usual fights. “I’m sorry I didn’t think about the bed,” she says, barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t—”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“I know you aren’t.”

“I’m so tired.”

She has this way of taking small words and making them feel big. Of making them span years, when they shouldn’t last more than a second or two. Rachel isn’t tired, so much as she’s exhausted, and burned out, and lonely, and weighed down—and she manages to convey all of this by simply shaking her head, and folding her face into her hands, and standing in front of him with all of the humility in the world.

He has this way of feeling her when she most needs it, in a way that no one else seems to be able to. Of hearing those great big words tied up in all of her small ones, and trying his best to say the right thing in response. “Let’s get some sleep, then,” he says, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. “We’ll get some sleep, and when you wake up, you can tell me exactly what all of those crazy kitchen plans mean.”

Despite herself, she laughs. It's a pitiful, mangled thing, but it still counts. “They’re not as crazy as they look.”

And Matt can’t hold back a smile. “Well thank God for that, because they look…” he tries to find a word, but this is much like everything else Rachel does, in that it defies explanation. “I mean, seriously, Rachel, you’ve gone full Doc Brown in there.”

She shoves him, gently, and Matt makes a show of clasping at his chest in faux hurt. “They’ll make more sense in the morning,” she tells him.

“Everything will make more sense in the morning,” he assures her.

And she believes him. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” he says.

That’s enough for them, for tonight, for now. It’s all they need. And maybe tomorrow will be bitter and hard at the center of Moscow, working an op that Rachel has given her whole heart to, but right now is easy and safe. Right now, they’re old friends who need each other more than they knew. 

Rachel finds his eyes again, and sighs something that sounds like relief and regret mixed together. “At least let me ease some of my guilt by hunting down a truly outrageous number of blankets on your behalf.”

Matt looks back to the loveseat and knows in his gut that there will not be enough room for more than one blanket. There is barely enough room for Matt, as is. Even so, he smiles at her. “Rachel Cameron,” he says. “I’ll always take any blanket you hand me.”

[brookstonalmanac]

Events 8.20 (1920-1990)

1920 – The first commercial radio station, 8MK (now WWJ), begins operations in Detroit 1920 – The National Football League is organized as the American Professional Football Conference in Canton, Ohio 1926 – Japan's public broadcasting company, Nippon Hōsō Kyōkai (NHK) is established. 1938 – Lou Gehrig hits his 23rd career grand slam, a record that stood for 75 years until it was broken by Alex Rodriguez. 1940 – In Mexico City, exiled Russian revolutionary Leon Trotsky is fatally wounded with an ice axe by Ramón Mercader. He dies the next day. 1940 – World War II: British Prime Minister Winston Churchill makes the fourth of his famous wartime speeches, containing the line "Never was so much owed by so many to so few". 1940 – World War II: The Eighth Route Army launches the Hundred Regiments Offensive, a successful campaign to disrupt Japanese war infrastructure and logistics in occupied northern China. 1944 – World War II: One hundred sixty-eight captured allied airmen, including Phil Lamason, accused by the Gestapo of being "terror fliers", arrive at Buchenwald concentration camp. 1944 – World War II: The Battle of Romania begins with a major Soviet Union offensive. 1948 – Soviet Consul General in New York, Jacob M. Lomakin is expelled by the United States, due to the Kasenkina Case. 1949 – Hungary adopts the Hungarian Constitution of 1949 and becomes a People's Republic. 1955 – Battle of Philippeville: In Morocco, a force of Berbers from the Atlas Mountains region of Algeria raid two rural settlements and kill 77 French nationals. 1960 – Senegal breaks from the Mali Federation, declaring its independence. 1962 – The NS Savannah, the world's first nuclear-powered civilian ship, embarks on its maiden voyage. 1968 – Cold War: Warsaw Pact troops invade Czechoslovakia, crushing the Prague Spring. East German participation is limited to a few specialists due to memories of the recent war. Only Albania and Romania refuse to participate. 1975 – Viking program: NASA launches the Viking 1 planetary probe toward Mars. 1975 – ČSA Flight 540 crashes on approach to Damascus International Airport in Damascus, Syria, killing 126 people. 1977 – Voyager program: NASA launches the Voyager 2 spacecraft. 1986 – In Edmond, Oklahoma, U.S. Postal employee Patrick Sherrill guns down 14 of his co-workers and then commits suicide. 1988 – "Black Saturday" of the Yellowstone fire in Yellowstone National Park 1988 – Iran–Iraq War: A ceasefire is agreed after almost eight years of war. 1988 – The Troubles: Eight British soldiers are killed and 28 wounded when their bus is hit by an IRA roadside bomb in Ballygawley, County Tyrone. 1989 – The pleasure boat Marchioness sinks on the River Thames following a collision. Fifty-one people are killed.